I count
Ten paces,
Armed with a shovel—
A long line of hunters ends with me,
Failing to bury a quail in the icy ground
Under the aspen trees.
The second son plays undertaker
While the flock’s fourteenth daughter
Is dropped gently atop the soil
Soft feathers and brittle feet.
Her grave is just a smudge of my boot
Frost gnaws my skin and I wince;
We make eye contact through closed lids
Until she rolls with finality into the roots.
I never learned to eat, or kill, or mourn,
So I cross myself right to left.
Empty handed, hold a vigil.
I mumble good hunting, even though she was prey.
I scrub my hands till they’re raw,
Thaw by the fire.
Swear. up and down I did her right;
I was meant to eat her.
I know I’m no delicacy—
Someday I’ll be left by the aspen trees.
Eyes flinched shut from impact,
A clean garden shovel
To keep me company.
