Adam Fisher


My brother took me
shooting, I hit
the target, but missed
the bullseye.

My brother took me hunting.
I saw a rabbit
but couldn’t shoot.

I used my BB gun
to shoot a squirrel
then wanted to find it
to clean its wound.
My brother stuffed paper
in the barrel of a civil war rifle,
shot it in the back yard—
fire flamed from  the barrel.
Our neighbor ran out
to complain. We laughed.
I was in a shooting contest at camp
where my bother was a counselor.
My opponent put up his own target;
I complained and won the trophy.
One summer I stayed
with my brother at college.
Late one night there was a knock
on the door. He
took a pistol out of the drawer,
motioned for me to stand back
and called, “Come in.”
A good friend entered.
 I was sitting on my brother’s bed
when he picked up his pistol
to eject the bullets.
One went off
and missed my leg
by an inch.

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