and crusted snow,
Sara hears Phil's boots
squeak on the ice
outside the bedroom window
She blows out
the kerosene lamp and lets her
sweater fall soft as a dust of feathers
to the floor Phil slams
open the tailgate and lifts five logs
from the pickup Back and forth, squeal of
hi boots, thud of the logs
on the back porch
Under blankets and a great
puffed quilt, Sara
waits, half dozing in their big
warm bed One more chore before the night
is out, Phil saws the left
front flank and leg loose in
the wood shed White moon above the roof,
the skinned three-legged deer hangs
upside down and headless
in the dark The tarp, once
soaked in blood,
freezes in the cold
Cold the oil-black pine
board floor
* * * * *Patrick Todd, a former creative writing university professor, lives and writes in Missoula, Montana.
His poem "Deer Meat" can be found in his fourth book of poetry, A Farm Under Poplars.
In an occupied bed in a cold room there is a thermocline between the space of the warm body and the cold, empty sheet. It is a frontier that shocks and surprises, and beckons only brave and generous pioneers.
ReplyDeletePoetically said, Mr. Badenoch.
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