Who Is My Brother?
by Don Thackrey
This finger was my gun; it made psssh sounds.
My older brothers served as enemies.
I’d sneak up on them, fire a couple rounds,
And watch them whirl and fall with horrid wheeze.
Years later, Christmas brought a BB gun.
Thenceforth no squirrel, bird, or bug was spared.
I prowled the woods and watched small creatures run
For cover, knowing Death and I were paired.
Still sneaking, prowling, now through Kandahar,
I lock and load an M16, then aim,
Squeeze off, and watch its red-hot bullets char
Their way through Afghan flesh to kill or maim.
To think that shooting started out as fun
When felling brothers with my finger gun.
