Deer wandered in my father's store
on the backs of men, their tongues hanging
as hunters held their dripping heads
counted horns, unless it was a doe
then they'd stop, spread her legs, talk of tender meat,
rest a tired hand on the inside of her thigh.
The first time I touched the brown fur of my body,
my fingers slipped easily into the folds.
I remembered the men, their dark coats, how a knife
removed the last bit of skin, the gentle bend of bone.
Soon I would be hunted, the sweet smell
on my hands tracked and I would lay
like the doe, my eyes open
T.E. Ballard is a professional artist
and writer living in the Midwest with her two young daughters. She
has recently been nominated for two Pushcart Awards and is
the Special Merit Winner in the 2002 Muriel Craft Bailey
Memorial Award sponsored by The Comstock Review. You
may find more of her work in The Drunken Boat, The Paumanok
Review, The Melic Review, Mandrake
Press, Tryst, Three Candles, Gumball Poetry, The Poet's Canvas
and Snow Monkey Press. She is currently at work on her
first book of poetry.
