WORK BY JUSTIN HART


Prey


I remember the body of the deer, all of its stillness and gray light that spread in its eyes. I remember the stream of small brown birds that flew from inside the deer, the carcass, hanging from the porch rafters. The birds' sound was a sound of wings, the sound of a soul leaping from the body into the world.

I remember the body of the deer and how it spoke in a blood-scent, with a finger, that wormed into my throat and grabbed and turned. There was green fire in the coals beneath the first pieces of the deer. It burned and spoke a fiery word. It burned until someone threw water on the coals and said it's time for bed.

I remember the body of the deer, the fur, the skin, the entrails all back in and on the body of the deer. I remember the hands and knives, I remember them moving over the body of the deer in reverse, making it whole again. The deer gets tied to the truck and carried away. The deer is lying in the grass, bleeding. The bullet flies out of its neck and back to the gun. The deer is running, I remember the deer, every piece of him leaping through the air, as if he had wings, as if we too had wings.

                                                   Forthcoming in Amaranth