Killing

Killing


by Bob Hicok


As a boy I killed to kill, clubbed frogs
on the banks of a polluted river
as their knobby eyes protruded
through the foam of filth; turned sun
on ants, magnified Sol to fire, stalked them
with the glass as they scuttled to escape
my God-sized wrath. And if allowed a gun,
a .22 like Todd Clayton and Eric Granger had,
I’d have shot squirrels and jays, possum
and possibly Calvin Jamison as they did once,
in the leg and shoulder because he lisped,
played piano and spoke French, though primarily
because it occurred to them they could.
What changed my habits was a kick
in the ribs one lunch, more so the laughter
of those circling the fight, an impromptu ring,
and the words of the victor, who leaned low
and whispered that he owned my ass,
his face animated by a virulent form of bliss.
He was like linebackers I’d know later
who were calmed by violence, tackles
at peace only when the game was over
and there was blood on their jersey,
an ache where they’d been kneed or bit
and the memory in their flesh
of smashing against another body,
of screaming through a sweep as the play
collapsed around a common intention,
the need to compel others to do what they
didn’t want to. I still know some of these guys
and the greatest compliment they can pay’s
to say of an old opponent
that he killed them. This usually comes
after a few beers and the acknowledgement
that things aren’t like they used to be,
knees and waists, hairlines and music,
which like philosophy is always said
to have been more authentic in the past.
I try to hurt nothing now, not centipede
or toad, the bats which get into the house
and circle in panic, unable to hear
a way out. Not because I’m good but because
the thought never leaves my body,
the child’s lesson that not only
can I kill but will and want to.



Bob Hicok
Published in Ploughshares