Ode to the Hunt

Father harvested you from the mountains,

from your sacred alpine temple.

He brought you to our kitchen table

Your neck broken,

your eyes empty.

You were a sack of blood and flesh

but you were also our family’s golden trophy.

Father took me around back to the shed,

strung you up from an old oak branch,

and handed me his butcher knife.

It felt foreign in my small chubby hands,

a foreignness I would experience again only on my wedding night.

Father guided my blade

into your perfect chestnut throat.

It was beautiful,

that rush of wine.

Deeper in color than anything God ever created

and thicker than any syrup that had ever touched my lips.

It fell and pooled around my feet

staining my white shoes.

We hung your head above the fireplace

and that night we accepted you into our bodies.

Mother made stew and steamed beets

but to all of us it was the most delicious feast we had ever tasted.

All night long I could feel you inside me

and when I closed my eyes later I found myself aboard your back,

my fingers entwined in your golden fur,

riding beneath the swelling moon.