Our son shoots a deer
during muzzleloader season—
a doe, small enough to fit
into the cooler my husband brought
with him. When I get home,
there is already a picture on the computer screen:
our boy, smiling as he kneels
over his kill, her blood staining
the leaves. I know that some day,
there will be another body
spread before him. She, too, will bleed.

















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