The Boy Who Hunts
out of season tells me
the fatty meat behind a deer’s eye,
if eaten raw and right
after the kill, tastes
like dough—and he laughs
when he says it: The doe
tastes like dough. I believe
him—believe his tongue
knows the salty and shapeless
taste of uncooked bread,
and his young trigger-
calloused fingers the slick
release of a dead eye
pried from a still-warm socket
that would have held it well
to see another waking
spring, through summer’s green
abundance, into the treacherous fall.
*
This boy who hunts
out of season tells me he leaves
the body where it lies
to bloat like a yeasted loaf,
and I believe him—believe
he knows nothing
of the full and warm flavor
of patience; nothing
of any season save his own
hard and violent weather;
nothing of living,
gentle eyes
and the sweetness
that rises behind them.
Should you depart in the morning,
your boots’ crunch
along your blood-
kin’s secret trail
will send the cottontails
bounding into the brambles.
Mind their fear only a little,
only enough to remember
you mean no harm
until you enter the dawn-
fogged creek. A warning:
root and rock will break
your ankle with no thought
toward justice—or mercy.
Wade carefully. Present
gently. Remember: you are
not here. Keep the line
slack, keep the line
tight, wait for the brook
trout to rise like water’s
lightning to your offering.
Lift. Hold. Pull. Grip
lightly with wet hands
until the harm is done—
so little harm,
you will tell yourself,
such bright beauty,
you will tell yourself—
and release. Return home
by nightfall. Notice,
as you walk the darkened
path, the bat circling, sightless,
diving for waking moths;
notice the grace—notice
this swift and fearless art.
An Interruption
I close the book written with breath
and open it again. I belong to this gravity
that sends the letter-thin moth—
too raptured by light to be tethered
by these pages—down to my breast where skin
ebbs and eddies. As always, the shimmering
dark fish of my heart rises
like a loosed ribbon of shadow from her lonely
chamber and sips this floating whisper
of a winged body—a delicate new sacrament—
into her silent mouth then returns to her shade-
blooded pool where she waits—
still—for the gift of another fallen word.
Benjamin Cutler is an award-winning poet and author of the full-length book of poetry, The Geese Who Might be Gods (Main Street Rag, 2019). His poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize numerous times and has appeared in Cold Mountain Review, EcoTheo Review, The Carolina Quarterly, and The Lascaux Review, among many others. In addition, Benjamin is a high-school English teacher in the Southern Appalachian Mountains of western North Carolina where he lives with his family and frequents the local rivers and trails.
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