Once I was a quick chickadee
hiding above you, peeping
through a dense cluster of red
maple leaves. Your sparse
hair tufted from
the bulge of your skull,
your body seemed a boney
extension of the tree
stump on which you sat.
Shifting sunlight reflected
off the rifle barrel resting
across stick-thin thighs.
You sat motionless, oblivious
to fall’s finale blazing
around you. A sudden crack
of thunder was followed by
the cessation of all sound.
Your body, headless now,
slumped onto a mossy bed,
draining sheets of crimson
over the silvery-green cover.
Bits of bone, chunks of brain
matter, streaks and blotches
of blood mixed with autumn
hues, turning the sunny
afternoon into a surreal scene
from a gruesome horror film.
In the distance I heard
the loudening laughter of children
walking home from school.
MARGARET VIDALE returned to her childhood love of reading and writing poetry after retiring from teaching in 2011. Growing up, poetry was an escape from severe child abuse. Poetry has enabled her to release much of her early suffering and record the joy of later years.
