First Kill

The deer was strung up, with a rope around her neck.

Her mouth was open and redden, trickles running down to paint

the rope like a candy cane. Down her white belly

the knife was drawn, slicing her never-womb open.

The blood flew from her flesh giving birth

to a red stream that ran down the driveway

and seeped into the cracks, dyeing the weeds.

It was my cousin’s first doe and he had the honor

of tearing the tissue passed her ribs. I remember

her organs fell to the ground willingly, orphans running

from a rotting foster home.

My uncle hacked off her hooves, tore her skin from her neck

and pulled it off her body, strings of tissue clung

to her protruding bones. Then they laid her down

and her head turned towards me.

I could see then her eyes were alive, those bulbous brown eyes

were living and seeing and she saw me, saw my own brown eyes

and her red mouth opened and shouted rage, calling my name.

I went to her, pressed my palms against her stumped legs

and laid my body  on her. She painted me red,

leaching the weight of her life to me, and all I could feel was

the muscles’ warmth, the scratch of her fur on my cheek.