Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2018  Vol. 17 No. 1
an online journal of literature and the arts
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from The Last Will and Testament of Said Gun

There used to be horses. On this farm alone we had thirteen. They were mostly silent, but every so often they would scream at the ground. Scream as if someone had whipped them beyond reason, or broken a rib. But there was no one near them, only the east wind working their fur like the tines of a fork.

My father filled wolf orders for the county. He grew a little corn. He spoke as often as the horses.

On Sunday evenings, he sat at his desk made of an old door across two Morton salt barrels. He wrote notes such as these:

“the said gun to be delivered back to me as it was given in part consideration of a sound horse sold to me by Tucker, which I have since found to be unsound.”

Or this, from his private writings:

“There is more to damage than tenderness afterwards.”