Here's one called, "The Blank Chamber".
Safety off, a variation on the screech owl, the lure
can be a sound never before heard.
My uncle had lent me the pistol.
We had discussed our trip to California, plans for children.
There was no moon, but it was warm in the cholla by the wash.
A pattering of rampant feet fading away,
then the guttural grunt.
By reflex, the trigger pull of instinct.
It falls on a blank chamber.
The javelina, blind sense of preservation,
charging, odor of musk.
Before I could raise the pistol again, deafening,
the barks from nowhere, dog's fangs turning both of us
out of the path.
Deafening, the imminence, feeding another round
into the revolving chambers.
I don't really mean that to be a close call poem.