by Carolyn Adams
When I’m playing GTA and they make me shoot an elk
A small sound escapes
the elk’s body no matter
where the bullet hits,
sounds something like
thank you, maybe it sounds
like I’ve been waiting;
and my breath catches
against the bullet’s impact
as the animal heaves over.
The games says good job,
send a photo for proof,
and in the camera on the TV,
the elk’s eyes flash glassy
black, say I never thought
you’d do it, say I never thought
it would hurt.
Olivia Kingery grows plants and words in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. She is an MFA candidate at Northern Michigan University, where she reads for Passages North. When not writing, she is in the woods with her Chihuahua and Great Pyrenees.
Carolyn Adams’ poetry and art have been published in the pages, and on the covers of Wend Poetry Journal, Steam Ticket, Apercus Quarterly, Calyx, and Kansas City Voices, among others. She has authored four chapbooks, with one being a collection of her collage art, entitled What Do You See? Select pieces of her collage art have been featured in #YourArtMoment, a program of the Beaverton Arts Council in Beaverton, OR.