Unclaimed Trophies

Eleven years, eleven deer.

I tramped the mountain for a month

Before I found the perfect spot;

It’s right beside a path that climbs the mountainside.

A stand of manzanita, very thick, obscures me well,

And deer retreating from the autumn chill

Don’t know I’m there.

I trust a nearby crotch to guide prevailing winds

So I’m the smeller, not the smelled.

I see my target from the rear as it descends,

And does and fawns are free to trot on down

Without imagining the danger they were in.

A legal buck is good as dead,

Provided that I do my part,

And this is where my strategy is mated to

My gun.

It’s very old, the walnut almost black:

A Mannlicher, with double triggers and a bolt

Shaped like a butter knife.

There isn’t any way to fit it with a scope,

But at this range, that’s no concern.

The ammo’s hard to find,

The bullets slow and long for caliber—

Exactly what I want.

My target’s rump is facing me; the profile shot

You see in books is never what I get.

About a hundred feet beyond my stand,

The path kinks to the right and back again, and so

I have a couple seconds when the buck allows

A shot that’s quartering.

The bullet has to pass through outer paunch

Without upsetting, angle in and drive on through

The chest, expand and drown him in his blood,

Then exit should I have to trail.

And, no, I never did.

Just two set hoof outside the trail,

And neither reached the nearest stand of trees.

Eleven times, my buck was quickly down and dead,

No meat destroyed or tainted by the paunch

Or gamey from a run because

The bullet wasn’t fatal fast enough.

I freely share the meat with family and friends.

Unless another hunter asks,

The memories are mine alone, to hoard.

My one regret is never having had

The tangible mementos of the hunt

I value most.

I don’t mean photographs—I know

My hunting grounds too well,

And all my bucks but two fell in the self-same place.

I only kept the rack of one, my biggest buck,

For I hunt other things;

How long do you suppose it takes

To crowd a trophy room?

No, what I miss would take up little space,

As lead and copper are so dense:

The things that started out a hundred sixty grains,

Then lost some weight, how much I cannot know,

In furling back a perfect mushroom shape.

They killed eleven bucks so perfectly,

Attesting to the hunter’s marksmanship

And knowledge of his game and gear,

Then exited, as they were meant to do.

Eleven years, eleven trophies lost.

© Robert Laughlin

BIO: Robert Laughlin lives in Chico, California. His poems have appeared in Bryant Literary Review, Camroc Press Review, elimae, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, The Orange Room Review and Pearl. His website is at www.pw.org/content/robert_laughlin.