I was raised to hold a gun the right way

and use it

and to eat what I killed.

But I turned off the pot before it sang to a boil,

kept the blender on low so as not to startle;

made the children whisper.

I turned up the towel to stare at you;

dropped the long straw with some earthy concoction

towards your gaping, skyward beak

equally mad at, and in awe of your mother

for her two day absence and her ability to get you this far.

I am sorry and not so sorry for how they circled around you

on the ground as you tried but couldn’t take flight,

and I am sorry but not sorry for the way they hover still

over your shaky torso and wet down

(resulting from the insecure grip of the cat’s mouth).

The cat—who already wolfed down a mouse for supper

perhaps thinking we didn’t notice,

the cat—who once we brought home in the same manner;

cradled in a warm blanket-nest with her tiny mouth receiving temperate drops of milk

from the well-intentioned hoverers…

and when the mower uncovers a den of mice

or a burrowing snake,

when the birds hit the window

or a starling takes flight because we cupped it in our fanatical hands,

I consider the notion

that a rifle in one hand

and a stranded sparrow in the other,

are allowed to reconcile.

KarenHansonPercy