Sol in Leo

Shooting a .22 is perversely
gentle. There is no real

kickback, it is simply an insistent
digging in the shoulder,

trailed by the sour smell of burnt
gunpowder, shells sputtering

from the magazine in a ticking
of brass. When I buy a pass

to the basement rifle range
my instructor advises that I

conceal my gun on the train
in a guitar case. Aiming at paper

torsos, I see it is foolish to wait
for winter days to lengthen.

How weak a dependence
on light is; like a body easily

betrayed, it can kill
a man. In the Persian miniature,

Sol in Leo, the lion is its own
composite of animals

eaten by the lion: plaited
in the mane, woven in the tail,

folded inside haunches like
contortionists in an open-

walled box of hide. Uncover
enough of what you are

and the world won’t think
to look for anything else.

First published in Gulf Coast