Uncle Cecil

Uncle Cecil

Uncle Cecil lived

on wild game and cigarettes

his arms and legs thin

tough as sinew

I saw him only

when reunions came around

He would stand beside the door

with all the men and talk

of hunting, fishing and of Idaho

until he had to slip outside

behind the trees

to smoke

But Cecil shot his buck alone

this year

before his sons arrived

to find him

where he lay beside the deer

he dragged a mile or more

before his heart gave out

I'd like to ask him now

about the woods he walked

about his hours waiting

in the blind

between his sons

how he did it—

sat for hours watching

for the smallest movement

there, against the trunks

two hands on his rifle

never smoking once

I'd like to ask him

more than that

how silence kept between

a father and his sons huddled in

the blind

how that silence

spoke

how that silence

made the choice between

a freezer full of venison

and hunger

how that silence

carves a father's name

into the tender skin

of boys

so that the boys return

year and year again

full stride into manhood

to their father's blind

until they find camp empty

exactly how he left it

and his steady boot tracks winding off

into the trees