MedGrl
Member
So...I'm sitting in one of my english classes today and the professor has us turn to a certain page in our text book and discuss the poem after we had a moment to read it. Here it is
Target
by Kim Addonizio
It feels good to shoot a gun,
to stand with your legs apart
holding a nine millimeter in both hands
aiming at something that can't run.
Over and over I rip holes
in the paper target clamped to its hanger,
target I move closer with the flick of a switch
or so far away its center looks
like a small black planet in its white square
of space. It feels good to nestle a clip
of bullets against the heel of your hand,
to rachet one into the chamber
andcock the hammerback and fire, the recoil
surging along your arms as the muzzle kickes up, as you keep
control. It's so good you no longer wonder
why some boys lift them from bottom drawers and boxes
at the backs of clossets, and drive fast into lives
they won't finish, lean from their car windows and
let go a few rounds into whatever's out there.
You can hear what comes back as they speed away:
burst glass, or the high ring of steel,
or mabey moans. Now you want
to take the thing and hurl it into
the ocean, to wait until it drops down
through the dark and cold and loges so deep
Nothing could retrieve it. But you know it would
float back and wash up like a bottle carrying a mesage from a dead man.
You stand there firing until the gun feels
light again, and innocent. And then you reload.
The class disscussion was interesting and I was wondering what you all thought about it.
Target
by Kim Addonizio
It feels good to shoot a gun,
to stand with your legs apart
holding a nine millimeter in both hands
aiming at something that can't run.
Over and over I rip holes
in the paper target clamped to its hanger,
target I move closer with the flick of a switch
or so far away its center looks
like a small black planet in its white square
of space. It feels good to nestle a clip
of bullets against the heel of your hand,
to rachet one into the chamber
andcock the hammerback and fire, the recoil
surging along your arms as the muzzle kickes up, as you keep
control. It's so good you no longer wonder
why some boys lift them from bottom drawers and boxes
at the backs of clossets, and drive fast into lives
they won't finish, lean from their car windows and
let go a few rounds into whatever's out there.
You can hear what comes back as they speed away:
burst glass, or the high ring of steel,
or mabey moans. Now you want
to take the thing and hurl it into
the ocean, to wait until it drops down
through the dark and cold and loges so deep
Nothing could retrieve it. But you know it would
float back and wash up like a bottle carrying a mesage from a dead man.
You stand there firing until the gun feels
light again, and innocent. And then you reload.
The class disscussion was interesting and I was wondering what you all thought about it.