No One Says a Word

Sunday at the gun range.  I’ve just switched    
from a Glock .45 to a rifle, loading thin, shiny    
30-30s into the chamber.  The late September    
air floats with dandelion poufs, the sun drugged,    
   
golden.  There’s eight of us in ear muffs,    
lined up under the kiosk, various firearms    
splayed on the table.  We’re a small    
army, and this is clean, American fun—    
   
our focus, our will, the only church    
we understand.  I hit the paper dead-on,    
at 50 yards, kickback reverberating    
down my skeleton, raise and aim again,    
   
the small muted explosions    
of the others no distraction.  It’s an orgy    
of shots.  Again, I nail my target, maintain    
my stance, when I notice fluttering    
   
out of my right eye.  A Monarch, with its trick-    
or-treat wings, skips right past us, climbing,    
falling, zig-zagging through our line    
of vision, dodging bullets, on some sort    
   
of suicide mission, or showing off its circus-    
sized balls.  One by one, down the line, shots    
stop, and all of us—men in camo, gangly teens,    
serious women—watch, our guns raised    
   
but silent, following as the butterfly takes a good    
minute to reach the other side.  Since it’s Sunday,    
we continue to blow shit up.  No one says    
a word.  We don’t even look at one another.    
   
   
   
*Note: This poem also appears in Word Salad:    
http://wordsaladpoetrymagazine.com/drupal7/no-one-says-word
 
*It also appears in The Legendary:
http://www.downdirtyword.com/authors/laurentivey.html