the crossing  

my heart, big as all outdoors.  
In it I am harboring
animals. 

But this isn’t target practice
skeet shooting clay pigeons
throwing wads of dirt  

against an ochre sky.  This isn’t
chicken playing tag playing
racecar playing long-haul trucking:    

the belly of a buck
will explode your windshield
before you can blink  

antlers reach through & spear lungs
from the foliage of your ribs
like apples. 

                        Wait—ignore the  

allusion.  Neither eden
nor nirvana, these warnings  
are jumbled, not directive  

no word made flesh.
This is jungle.  Bush.  Wilderness. 
If you watch carefully  

you may discern the
stunned gaze of meaning
trapped between two trees.   

When you do, let instinct
steady your scope
audacity take aim.   

Fire.  

 

 

Venison  

My mother’s father never visited her; but his brother did
Once, sometime around Christmas—I was a kid
And he was like all my uncles; old baseball cap
And octagonal glasses with an old prescription.
The work shirt buttoned straight down the front, and the loud truck
With the bed of junk.  And the quiet voice.  And the awkward hugs.   

He brought us deer; my first taste
Of something my mother couldn’t make.  Wrapped in foil
The salt-scoured ribs had an uncomfortable flavor
Like someone cooked the meat longer than necessary,
Trying to boil the wild out of it. 

                                                            Didn’t work.  

I see it again on top of the stove; the brown animal
Wrapped in crumpled silver.  Scalded tender; insides exposed
And the way the wide bones curved, still cradling the empty space
Of what they once held.  The cigarette smell
Of my mother’s uncle, who lived alone. 
Who had no children. 
Who would only visit once.  

I wonder
What kind of man he was,
What gun he carried,
What knife he used
And what it must take
To hollow out a bleeding thing