Ode to Venison
by Laura Rashley
my grandfather, singing, comes into the kitchen
wearing only his boxers, the rest of his clothes left on the porch
in case of ticks, for the blood to dry. my mother at the table
is told to bring him the leather bag he keeps under the sink
I killed, I killed, I killed
thebiggestdeerintheforest
from the rafter in my grandfather’s shop sway two deer,
brothers, dancing intimate & honest circles
around one another, their bodies an earnest church
of velvet and the sugar-sweet afternoon rain
I shot, I shot, I shot
thebiggestdeerintheforest
when he’s good & drunk on whiskey Arnold Palmers he calls me
to hold the bucket between my knees so he can drain the harts
for more to fill his cup. it’s here i learn the language of a hand
pulling upward on my shirt toward the backyard
It’s dead, It’s dead, It’s dead
thebiggestdeerintheforest
i help my grandmother load the paper packages
into the freezer. heavy like a stack of books they sit
one on top of the other waiting to be cracked open,
to be read back into buck & brilliant battle
Now I’m, Now I’m, Now I’m
thebiggestdeerintheforest
what else is there to come of daughters & songs?
