Doug Paul Case


The thunder trundled away to the north and ceased
and there was just the rain.
Beneath the shed’s tin
roof, all you could hear was the hammering,

the splatter of water into wheelbarrows, buckets.
It reminded you of the rabbit’s blood, running
into the basin. You fingered its foot, still

in your pocket—the pellet gun, only
for target practice, against it. And no,
you didn’t worry about your father

finding you like this—slumped, crying,
when you should’ve been in the house.
He had his own blood to consider.

Doug Paul Case studies writing, literature, and publishing at Emerson College, where he is editor of The Emerson Review. His poems have appeared at Alba, Leveler, Pank, and others.

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