The roo, stewed,
is outcome of shotgun,
the messy tear of skin.
The goat will break teeth
if not carefully cut
and held in the slow cooker
longer, so the metal falls
deeper into the pot. Two shot
between here and Jurien,
one almost kid-sized—
oven-roastable.
Coming home, the slab
of red in glad-wrap
on the bench is just flesh,
indistinguishable.
This is something
I should learn,
the full process.
Filling the chamber, the shot,
how to angle the body
so the blood spills neatly.
All the old farm boys
know, teach their sons.
I could be one
with a gun. Just
cock the handle
and be ready to take
the recoil, the bruise
on the collarbone,
the misfire, the graze
from dropping knees to ground.
The corpse, too heavy
to lift, winched against sky.
Caitlin Maling is a WA poet who has published two books of poetry. A third, Fish Song, is due February 2019.