Deer Heart


A heart, extracted to the cold light of view.  My roommate takes it from the refrigerator to show me, so that I am not startled by its presence on the shelf by my flax milk and salsa.  Shot once, the arrow straight through and instantly fatal.  I never saw the deer.  Little cooked pieces of it, squirreled away in my backpack, wait for me to eat or throw away. How I got it and who shot it, stories I could tell.  Saying yes to the impetus to get outside myself, and create actual pieces of writing.  Inspired by my daughter’s blogging, the wealth of writing online, and prickled by a former lover’s criticism of my insular nature, I sit in warm sun and begin.  I’m astounded that such a platform exists to exhibit photos and writing, in a worldwide community online.  I’m drawn to the headlights, stretching to grow, getting in the line of fire, for the browsing and nourishment to be had.  The napkin I wrapped the meat in has a slight bloodstain on the outside.  I carefully chew a piece of room-temperature muscle that was cooked at noon yesterday, and set aside forgotten, waiting for me.  I taste dusk and surprise, a tang of grass and a consistent texture with a grit I sink my teeth into.  It’s good.  Thank you deer heart.

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