When I visited my Scottish uncle in De Aar, he sat
on the back porch of his cottage with a Winchester,
polished like auburn sex, loaded. When he shook
my hand his finger pressed into my wrist and the vein
tingled while we burned through brush in the silver
Geländewagen, his jokes about taking women in the back
of Woolworths, clearance racks shaking like branches in wind.
When we stopped he told me to shut-up though he was
the one talking. We walked with stilted steps to a hilltop,
brown-freckled antelope below. After the first shot
they scattered, but one, injured, limped with heavy weight.
He handed me the rifle and asked about my mother.