By Ellene Glenn Moore
This is how I know you, a buck’s blood on the flagstone, meat parceled out, a grey knife. You pulled that deer carcass a quarter mile down the drive, chiseled something nourishing out of its remains. The patio was wet as rain, even though the summer was dry, still, the field’s high buzzing carried to the table like water carried to the rocky pools of the stream. We all look for that healing balm: the trout in the river, a path cut in the field. I crave the heartiness of lit faces, the table full before us. Show me how blood changes a person; show me how to split open a body. I still know nothing of the kind of tenderness humming in your fingers when you stripped that dead thing of its final camouflage.
Ellene Glenn Moore is a writer living in sunny South Florida. Her poetry and prose have appeared or are forthcoming in Best New Poets, Poetry Northwest, Fjords Review, Caliban, and elsewhere, and her chapbook The Dark Edge of the Bluff is forthcoming from Green Writer’s Press. Find her at elleneglennmoore.com.