Charles is in the twilight heat 

Where summer rubs 

Like tectonic plates on skin. 

He tells me stories 

Of shooting people in Vietnam  

During the war. 

–

The rifle he used is under his bed. 

I saw it once when he asked me  

To feed his cat Molly while on vacation. 

He took his wife to Canada 

To watch the caribou, migrate. 

–

It’s such a plain rifle, worn. 

Wood stain nearly rubbed off. 

Barrel dull, black and textured. 

He drives hundreds of miles 

To watch the caribou.  

–

Through his kitchen window 

He mentions how hot it is. 

The sun is an orange throb. 

He tells me how he used to hunt 

in southeast Oregon, Steens Mountain 

Hauled back all the animal 

Limb by limb, organ by organ 

Buckets of blood and fat. 

–

I don’t like it when the morning sun is hazy 

Before the heat proves 

It can take the night. 

Charles throws seeds to blue jay parents. 

They’re always uptight, worried. 

Especially if Molly chews grass near them. 

A grey squirrel gnaws on antlers 

Nailed to a tree in his backyard. 

The antlers are decades old. 

–

The goal in Vietnam, he said, was to maim not kill. 

It ties up resources, beds, hospitals 

Doctors, systems, and puts stress on a country. 

Killing just needs a burial or a burn. 

–

He’s in a wheelchair now.

Sits in front of a television, volume turned up. 

Still feeds the blue jays. 

The seed is stolen by crows.  

A bus picks him up once a week 

To visit the VA hospital 

Treating him for dementia and heart disease. 

Talks about how he watches the caribou.

Molly doesn’t seem to notice.