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The Iowa Review - - GRAHAM BARNHART -

A row of steel frames with counter weight chains raise tar­get sil­hou­ettes above a con­crete bunker. Ri­fles whip crack and echo—

What else can a ri­fle do, but crack? Pop, chat­ter, bang, clap, just names for the si­lence fol­low­ing af­ter.

On low­ered tar­gets I mark bul­let holes with card­board discs like shocked into singing mouths. White cir­cles plug hits on the sil­hou­ette, black for the misses out­side it. They seem to whis­tle—

Look. Look. They can’t tell when they’ve hit some­thing. O what death we will make from you.

When I fire black haloes con­verge into clus­tered white hearts, and the high whine of ric­o­chet rounds seem to split thin leaf stems from their branches. They drift, and the bul­lets keep pass­ing through.

What art will I make from you?

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