Richard L. Matta
Lingering Smoke
It’s my first hunt. I’m thirteen with my birthday new shotgun. We start down a steep trail, and I slip on a wet autumn stone. The blast is deafening; I’m afraid to look down at what might be my 20-gauge blown-off foot. There’s a hole in the dirt just inches away. Dad says, “nice, try keeping your finger away from the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.” He’s a war vet—flew countless bodies out of Southeast Asia. We make our way through high grasses, push our way through bushes to stir up a pheasant. Pow! Pow! I feel sharp stings. Dad pushes me down so fast I don’t know what’s happening. He snaps up, screams at them to stop shooting, his gun pointing in their direction. They run off. He picks a couple of pellets out of my neck and we march on.
dad’s dementia... through his stammer he points saying so many gone you were a lucky one
About the Author
Richard L. Matta grew up in New York’s Hudson Valley, attended university, practiced forensic science, and now lives in San Diego. Some of his haiku, tanka and haibun are in Modern Haiku, Frogpond, Akitsu Quarterly, Bottle Rockets and Presence. His long-form poetry is found in various journals, including Gyroscope, Dewdrop, Ancients Path and Healing Muse.