I always killed them on the drive up and cried on the drive back.
The only evidence of his death is the jewelry I make
out of the bits of him that are left:
an orbed necklace of hair, a jar of white,
a ring with a cracked gold-capped tooth.
Aside from that, this could be five years ago
and I could be a sophomore in college,
and he could be on a road trip,
and I could be crying for any other reason.
I used to want to die sometimes,
but I feel my tongue soften against the roof of my mouth as I swallow
and I know I don't anymore.
Not after watching...
I bought the same brand of winter coat.
It makes me look like I could skin a deer.
As a child, I would walk outside after a fresh hunt
and poke the tongue flopping out of the deer's mouth.
I would watch as my dad strung the deer up
to the side of the pole barn,
the weight of its body thumping against the metal door.
It sounded so heavy,
like it weighed more in death than it did while it was alive.
I watched my father grip the knife and slice the body open.
I can still hear the rip as the hide tore open for the blade,
the hot steam of organs birthed into the crisp fall air.
The thud as they became meat on the ground.
After, I would walk up to the deer and hold its hoof.
While the ligaments were still loose,
I would open and close the two hard black crescents
open, close, open, close.
And now I get it.
Now that he is dead.
The elastic strung around his dead hair like a rope.
How I lifted his head and it was so heavy with death,
full of a hundred killings,
and I gripped the scissors as his hair ripped across their cold metal,
a few stray strands planting themselves alone in the sheets next to his shoulders.
How they didn't make a sound as they fell.
How he didn't make a single sound.
(applause)