02 Issue-1 · 2 of 13
November and the garage became a butchery;a buck upside down, eviscerated, hanging so the blood drained onto newspapermy father changed daily; my brother and I stood and watched, as he, with knife sharp as his temper, slid skin from flesh;red nose running in the cold, he’d stop, take the white handkerchiefI had ironed a week past, blow and continue until the deer-shaped red muscle smelling of raw and wet and late November leaveshung, its thick coat a mass of folds on the cement.