Site of Disappearance
Sometimes the muse makes a big ask. Revisit the death of a brother, for example, and explore how that painful memory gathers momentum as one’s own son comes of age. Muses, Erin Malone knows, are expert button pushers. A Coniston Prize and the Robert Creeley Memorial Prize winner, Malone is a bookseller and lives on Bainbridge Island in Washington.
My Father Wasn’t a Hunter
The only time he tried, his brow split open
when the scope kicked back.
Pheasants safe in their grassy hills,
rye in his glass, ice, the shake
of his laugh, recalling.
Recoil the thing that got him.
My father planted a tree between the graves
of my brother and the murdered boy.
Recall. The hunt
for the killer ended on television.
A young man shackled, turning his head away.
Snow on his shoulders.
The sheriff held his elbow,
almost gentle.
The brute syllables of evidence: knife, rope, prints, blood.
Recoil means to shrink from. Recoil means
spring back.
My father furious, talking to the room—
They should take the bastard out and shoot him.
Reviewed by
Matt Sutherland
Disclosure: This article is not an endorsement, but a review. The publisher of this book provided free copies of the book to have their book reviewed by a professional reviewer. No fee was paid by the publisher for this review. Foreword Reviews only recommends books that we love. Foreword Magazine, Inc. is disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.
