hunting season

a gun shot 
hands clapped hard together.
red from the impact. 
there are deer everywhere. 
they get on their knees to try & hide
beneath all of our houses. 
knees popping snapping backwards.
a tree snapping in half.
where i'm from everyone hunts. 
everyone puts on bright orange suites
so they can see each other in the woods.
so they don't shoot each other.
that's not true though some people 
dress like the trees. 
they wear in camouflage. 
the woods stand like a crowd of people.
the gun shots come from the crowd--
from between shoulder blades & purses. 
i can hear each vibrate.
i eat onion grass on the back porch
& walk bare foot even though
it's october & the ground is chilled.
cold dirt is the most welcoming.
everyone is going to be eating deer soon
& turning it into jerky. 
in school other children 
offer each other fragments of meat.
dark tough meat. dried by butchers.
i will eat a piece. first pulling
the strings of muscle apart. woven with salt.
chewing. mashing the pink back 
into the jerky. peppered & almost sweet.
i think of the meat when i pace back & forth
in the grass. i see deer. they are all 
trying to be small. some lay on the ground 
behind my garage & others stand behind 
out pine tree. i tell them it's okay
that i won't ever eat parts of them again.
they don't believe me which is
what hurts the most.
i wanted to know what my meat 
would taste like if it was pressed like theirs.
i put on an orange suite--
pointed my finger in the shape of a gun
to make them fearful of me. i don't know
why i did this. 
it was cruel & i felt small
& they felt small. i got on 
my knees. i hear a pop. 
guns talking
in the thick woods. 
the woods chattering.
the deer asking me to lead them indoors--
to make brothers & sisters out of them.
i explained i couldn't do that--
there wasn't enough room & plus
they might have ticks. each tried
to become a shingle. each tried to become 
a branch. each prayed to be orange 
or camouflage like us.  
the cold dirt was aloud.
i taught them how to cry.