Joshua McKinney

When I was ten, my father handed me
his rifle and said, “Go,

take a hike.” I felt honored to be trusted,
and stayed out all day

to prove I could stay out all day. Late
in the afternoon, I found

myself standing on the mountain above town,
and looking down

I saw my father’s house, small and white
on the outskirts

near the railyard. Above me, the sky
gaped unbounded.

I can’t say why I raised the rifle and fired
into the zenith of that void—

the report feeble, the shot Dopplering off,
swallowed by the silence

that ensued. As I waited, the absence grew,
and I began to fear

the fall. Would the bullet return,
and if so, where?

I stood on the mountain and waited, the rifle
heavy in my hand,

as the sun sank to the horizon
and the sky turned red.