the first shot

A poem.

The following poem is a true story, based on my experiences as a shooting sports instructor for the Boys Scouts in college and inspired by a writing prompt.

one week at summer camp, 

a young Boy Scout begged

to join the shotgun class 

& told me of his dream

to shatter clay targets 

with a 20-gauge act of God.

but when we stood 

on the mountainside shooting range

& the young man felt the gun's fever, 

saw it thrash like a wild buck

in the arms of a fellow Scout, 

he sat on the bench 

& refused to shoot.

when I finally coaxed him to the firing line

I helped position the butt of the gun

against his shoulder, lifted the sight to the sky, 

slid the yellow cartridge into the action,

snapped it shut & stood back.

the orange target took flight, 

but the shotgun was silent 

& the target splintered on the ground.

I'm afraid, he told me. I don't want it 

to explode in my face.

it won't, I assured him. 

I checked it myself.

but the Scout trembled

& hot tears poured down his face. 

in a wild moment, he forgot the gun

& its blazing dangers, 

& turned toward his fellow students.

I seized the gun from him & sat him down. 

after class, the Scout & I took the gun apart

& arrayed the metal elements side-by-side

on the concrete. hot rain fell

from the dark New Hampshire sky 

& his anxiety buzzed like a wasp.

so it was for three more days; 

each class an effort made,

a shotgun held, a target flown–

but still, the trigger would not move. 

his classmates earned their badges

through bursts of orange clay.

that Friday, the young Scout was first

to arrive. it's time, he told me,

his face interwoven with steel and fear. 

when at last the class assembled, he stood first

& approached the tape-lined firing spot.

I remember I helped him hold it, 

fearful I was of the gun leaping from his arms 

& striking his face (or mine, for that matter).

he shook as I used my free hand

to let the target fly from the launcher.

he missed by a mile;

the target caught the swirling summer wind

& soared off into the trees. 

but the shotgun roared & tore a chunk

from the side of a dead tree trunk.

still, our cheers were louder.