Plum Island
The older women always shout out a greeting:
“What have you seen down that way?”
They offer up a peregrine
a chance for an owl
some tripods set up near the salt marsh
make a worried cluck at the state
of the ice on the walkway
Down a side path, you call my name in a hush
point out the doe watching from behind a scrim of bramble
eyes huge and glistening
ears furred and alert
A few minutes later, a woman asks if we have seen any
deer or if they have killed them all
like the newspaper said they would
culling is a word that hides things
And I worry for the ladies strolling unaccompanied
in the national wildlife refuge human and ungulate alike
Fifty Pounds of Venison
My husband killed a deer
and by nightfall its cooling body
rested in my yard, eyes still
wet and deep
I knew I was supposed to marvel
and be impressed
but what I had to do is rest my hand
on its soft fur and press until
the death rose up,
cluck and say
Oh buddy
Poor buddy
feeling mostly sad
yet determined I would eat him
because the thing had already
been done and it seemed a shame
to be so tenderhearted
that an animal should lose its life
then go to waste.
