What did the grouse hear
as the Father talked to his Son
— what did it hear in the reassuring
speech, practiced over a glass of rye,
in the repetition of “I will always
love you”? Walking among the thin
ground cover, random and haphazard,
the mottled markings passed on
from grouse to grouse as a costume
knit of invisible-making feathers —
well, it stands invisible to all except
the boy who was brought on
these hunts because he can see —
better than 20/20 and while that makes
him a great bird-dog, a follower of heals,
he can see everything — he has to;
he learned a long time ago to see
so he can hide among the stripped
branches and in the shadows
of bigger things — and there studied
absorbed in an after thoughts
he has taken it all in, seen, and heard,
and become a part of the environment
something other than prey or unmade
stew. He studied, learned, and waited.

There he walks, searching the bush,
wanting to dash in and disappear
while listening to his Macintoshed
hero-figure, carrying the .22 across
his back with its refinished stock,
oiled by hand. “Son, it’s complicated —
one day you’ll understand” —
searching the woods for answers
for something that could possibly explain
the simplicity of selfishness
but all that comes is the salty welling
of glassy eyes which he fights,
fights hard, lest he be less than for failing,
to control his emotions, just fire off
a tear like he didn’t care who it hurt
“You’re too sensitive Son —
it’s not about you” and they both
sigh into a grassy path — one wishing
for a violence to correct the entropy
of this nuclear family in full fission.

He understood — there was no
understanding to be had; it didn’t matter,
it never mattered, it couldn’t matter
or he’d dissolve into space that was
the hours he waited for his Dad
to come home and just be, be, be,
hours late, dinner passed, scars
inlaid like Mother of pearl on a rifle,
be a presence and be a wall,
a brass shell, burnt with sulfur,
a barrier that just had to be,
and she would stop.

What did the grouse hear?
was it the oppositional voice
of a boy who shunned everything
about his father and who couldn’t say
fuck it — so said “I want to be
a game warden to stop people like
you who kill and hurt — just cause you can”
or was it the Son who wanted
to rise again with this Father
be his prize and his praise
“There, out of underbrush,
there — in front of us.”

What did the grouse hear?

∞

Submitted as part of “National/Global Poetry Writing Month” (#NaPoWriMo #GloPoWriMo).
Today’s prompt: write a poem that similarly presents a scene from an unusual point of view.
And for further inspiration, see Lily Myers reciting/performing her poem “Shrinking Women.”