I found and flushed and shot a partridge.

The dog fetched it, still half-alive until

 

I put my thumb beneath its chin

then popped its neck like so many cans of soda.

 

I stuffed it in the game pouch of my vest.

For an hour it ticked out life’s nervous coda:

 

Heat spread under my skin,

spurs twitched against my spine.

 

So for years my heart’s vulgar plumage,

the lies and guilt I kill, then pocket.