BY ANDREW JARVIS
Father taught us to shoot
in swamps, where still water
forced us to balance
in bogs, keeping the stocks
snuggled in shoulder bones,
between bodies and chins,
to extend our third arms
and gauge the ways of geese,
to aim ahead and eye
their wings, while we waded,
waiting for flight, rigid
snipers with barreled shots,
ready for bird bolting,
before wind awakened
squall, shot water to sky
and sank us, saving birds
in bluster, sinking guns
into gushy mud, mire
where father grappled us
with his threatening grip
and threw us wimps ashore,
disowning his children
as cowards, always weak,
while he slipped on slugs, shot
his feet, and fell, watching
us master the misfire.
Andrew Jarvis is the author of The Strait, Landslide, and Blood Moon. His poems have appeared in Cottonwood, Measure, Plainsongs, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and several others. He holds high honors from the Nautilus, INDIE Book of the Year, FAPA, CIPA EVVY, and NextGen Indie Book Awards. Andrew holds an M.A. in Writing from Johns Hopkins University and lives in Orlando, Florida.
Process Note: The process I used for "How Grownups Fire" is multifaceted and layered. I drew from personal memories of shooting, combined with conceited parental pride, foolishness, and irony. I then layered the poem with lyric qualities, meter, and wordplay. The verbiage propels the poem for a swift read, which matches the poem's spontaneity.