The deer is still alive
in the roadside grass.
In an hour, we’ll cut her open,
her left hip broken, the bone
in her dark body; now the white Camaro
shocked in the night and the boy
wet faced in the backseat,
his parents at a loss by the hood,
too young to have meant
any of it: the giving
or taking. They are glad for our headlights,
glad for our rifle.
Her head still on, she hangs
outside our kitchen window
for the blood to drip, skin
pulled down like a shirt.
I watch my husband undress her
with a knife. I wash the blue plates.
When I turn the water off, I can hear
his blade unmoor muscle, sail
through her fascia.
We put her leg and buttock
on the wooden table, where we
will gather her between us
to eat all year. It is all I see:
a thing, alive, slowly becoming my own body.
To celebrate National Poetry Month and in appreciation of the many cancelled book launches and tours, we are happy to present an April Celebration: 30 Presses/30 Poets (#ArmchairBookFair). Please join us every day for new poetry from the presses that sustain us.
