My father raged when protestors left signs
out front, condemning him a Bear Killer.
You should be thanking me, he hollered at cars
while hosing red paint off the mailbox.

The bear had toppled garbage cans up
and down the mountain. Neighbors locked
their kids inside and walked their dogs on leashes.
Now the bear was dead and skinned. I howled

when he brought home the rug. I loved to watch
the black bear lumber through our yard, sniff
at mulberries, acorns, beech nuts, then mosey
out of sight behind needles and leaves.

What kind of idiot loves a thing they fear?
My father asked, then dragged me to the yard.
Learn control. Then you’ll understand.
He put a rifle in my hands and pointed

at a target (a paper cut-out man, with rings
across the chest). The gun was heavy, long,
awkward. Make sure the safety’s on, he said,
taking a bullet, lifting the silver bolt.

See into the breech, where a hammer strikes
the shell. Now snap the bolt back forward.
Listen for the click. He raised the gun
up to my shoulder. I found the crosshairs

in the scope, the target loomed downrange.
My father stood, a perfect statue, holding
my arms straight. I tried to stand my ground.
His finger pressed my finger on the trigger.