Deer by Deborah A. Miranda

They hang her in the barn, head down, tongue fat,

dripping blood. I am left alone

for a moment, venture close to stroke dark fur

made rough by winter; that is when she is whole,

intact before butchering. I’m not sure

if they shot her, or hit her by accident

with the truck, but she comes from the mountains

out if season so it is the darkness that counts, not

how she died. All winter long we’ll eat her

in secret: steaks, stews, bones boiled for broth

and the dogs. But what I will remember is

the rough way men’s hands turn back the hide, jerk

down hard to tear it from her body. A dull hunting

knife cracks and disjoints the carcass.

Dismembers it piece by piece.

The hide disappears-left untanned, taken

to the dump. Years afterward I walk

out to the barn, scrape my foot against

the stained floor beneath the crossbeam,

never tell anyone

I’ve been taken like that.