//my grandfather was a deadeye//

he dropped pheasants
at eye-level,
doves with a pistol,
quarters thrown in the air
for shots of whiskey.

after he passed,
dad got his old
double barrel shotgun


she hung
from two lengths of twine
in the basement
until i was fourteen.

i bought a box
of slug-shot
from wal-mart,
no note,
popped one in the left chamber
barrel in my throat
big toe on the trigger.


i'd accidentally
had the
set for
the right barrel.

sometimes i still hear it
in my dreams,

a dropped spoon
on the kitchen floor,

or a nail gun
dancing on a roof
off in some

//mom says she hasn't left the house since//

i remember her
running in a yellow billed hat
head tilted so far to the left her ear
was practically flush with the shoulder
always an open mouth looking slightly pained
mom worked with her dad at the hospital she
said molly was autistic as a child
lived at the mental hospital in cherokee until she
was eighteen
moved back with her parents
just started running out of the blue running
watercolors and not talking
even at thirty-eight
i'd only seen her twice when she wasn't running once
at the pizza buffet with her parents
slumped over with her arms in her lap
same yellow hat pulled far down over her eyes no food
or drink
concave chest rhythmically pumping up and down like
ribcage of an overheated dog
the second time i was rollerblading near brookside
coasting downhill at a good clip
three teenage boys shot out of the woods to my left
knocked me down and kept on sprinting
picked up my headphones
rubbed the pebbles out of my bleeding elbows when i
saw her
on hands and knees
there behind the thick brush where
i saw blue shorts
around her ankles
blood all spattered blood across her thighs and
a low moaning sound
dropped my stomach
into my ankles

Justin Hyde has had stuff published in Thieves
Jargon, Zygote in my coffee, Cerebral Catalyst
and other on-line and print publications.

His blog is at http://fdostoev.blogspot.com

2007 Underground Voices