The Game Ranch Poem by Gert Strydom

We went to visit my cousins
on their game ranch
and you hated it there
although every thing
was very comfortable
and you were well cared for.

What had set you off?
I still do not know,
but at breakfast you were already furious
although everybody
danced to serve and entertain you.

Was it the hunting tales
of the previous night
around the blazing big fire,
or the bush hog
that the Spaniard boasted
about killing,
which almost smashed him
of which his wife
had taken a video?

At the shooting range
some cool drink tins were set
and you didn’t want any help from me
and didn’t really listen
to the instructions from my cousins,
closing your eyes with every shot
that you took with the pistol
and missed every target by a mile.

I looked at the nine-millimetre pistol
with its missing front sight
and both my cousins smiled
as if conspiring with each other
and I clasped both hands together
in a well taught military hold
and your eyes went big,
almost popping out of your head
while the row of tins
was shot off
in what sounded like almost one shot.

On instruction I shot at the fallen tins
letting them jump into the air
until the magazine was empty
and the cousins
put matches standing up on bricks
and gave me a old.303 rifle
with an open sight.

I aimed carefully before pressing the trigger
and shot those matches down
and on your face
there was a frown
and even before we left
to go hunting
with some trackers
you looked at me
as if I had turned into a killer
and was going to shoot
at every living thing.