Red Handed

Wed, 04/04/2018 - 20:00 -- Saroda

His hands are calloused and torn,

browned by the sun as always but

now they are stained red with blood


Silent, he grips

the butt of his rifle with one hand

and a dirty cloth with the other


Twisting, wiping, polishing,

checking the chamber,

cleaning the barrel


The forest is an aquarium tank,

tinged blue with filtered light

and alive with swaying trees and creatures that scurry


"What have you done?" I ask him

as he sits admiring the gleaming steel,

hands still red


He startles and looks at me—

holding up his prize, he says

"I've cleaned my rifle."


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741