Postcards from Makeshift Archery Range in Southern Illinois

I.
A boy stands loading his bow,
the red one every boy at camp wants to hold in their bony arms.

II.
This is a child’s range, only twenty-five feet. Yet we stock bows heavy enough
to bring down deer I would never eat.

III.
The Cub Scout from Pinckneyville
spouts unsolicited advice for my aim,
my draw, despite the Range Officer’s whistle jostling around my neck.

IV.
Teens hit bruise-blue rings with force
that is foreign to me. My shoulders flinch with each arrow flung too
deep into its styrofoam target. I tally their points.

V.
Would I be overstepping
if I plundered every back shed in this state? Pilfered rifles, bullets, bows, arrows, ceramic plates
rust-red
as the earth beneath me?

VI.
A boy fires, pins a passing dragonfly to the target. It doesn’t even matter how close the arrow
came
to bullseye. He shot the living through with steel,
so he laughs and leaps.