In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

At Coueron. My First Gun. Mama & I & Rosa, we hope never to meet another war. Here the land is flat & trim, sheep swerve together, hedges & fences keep order. I explore margins & flawed places while Rosa's piano turns a pretty flurry. I take chocolate in waxy papers & a basket to bring back nests & lichens, more strange than my lessons. The daily murders of the city are far, fewer, then stop, & I forget them. We grow apart, my sister and I, she domestic, says my blown eggs & stuffed birds stink. I close the door. I shoot well, corks I toss come down in showers, my fingers gleam with powder. The gun kicks my shoulder, its shout & smell clear me. The bird falls, always. I watch its color & shine & flare for weeks before I fire, but my sketch preserves only its deadness. I burn my pencil's generation of cripples on my birthday. Sometimes I sleep near my Originals, on leaf litter 6 beneath the trees they close their eyes in, sometimes I lie awake in the quiet house & listen to the nightwatch kept by the river, old water clock, & by whickering horses standing to their sleep. 7 ...

Share