If the Wolf If the Gunman
He lay down.
His machinery adjusted itself
And his blood escaped, without loyalty.
Orf
Ted Hughes
Because reasons are sometimes given
first and not last, the judgement
comes when you step in late
when the dressing’s already stuck
to the cut, and the blood’s slowed
in agreement to everything, finally,
given to save this time a limb, or let,
finally, a tired, broken life. I’ve seen
you go into a blind hysteric, convert
the alchemical calm of the room into
lead, so the sick have to give over
to you. It needn’t have been blown so.
Like coming up on the remains
of the lamb he had to shoot, it
being too consumed with disease
to save. It was the peaceful
thing to do. The right thing to do.
But you, all you see is the downed
and the dead. Did you come running
after the shot spread out its signature
pop, higher than deeper than
the lamb you were content until then
to snub? How many months
did the poor thing bleed
while you skipped by, alive? Never
once did you tend the mouth
or hoof, never once did you
listen to the cough and the closing
throat. Who are you
I want to know, standing now over
this corpse and going into your own
flesh of milk? I want to scoop the free
creature up and hold it away
from you so that its last dignities
aren’t stolen in your Christless
wailing. I want it to take to its own
heaven, to carry its own soul
back into the fold and curl
into the hip of the ewe who
delivered it, who knew it before
you came along, before you
stepped into the rain intending
to save you say, save something
of yourself more, never ever
looking, I was there. I know.
And the weight of the gun
was like the weight of his gun.
On me. In me. Even after
I set it down between you
and me and the creature, bleeding
but free.
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