Field Dresser

You’ll find me in the rearview mirror.

Naked as daylight. Somehow younger in the snow.

I sleepwalk—all hooves—through the middle of town.

Eyes more like black glass than the brown you don’t remember.

I’ll dare you to lay me backside so the trees can watch.

Spread the hind legs like you never got to.

Antlers up. Easier to cut.

Fruit flies, earthworm—the light cracking through.

Even here, stars die like an afterthought.

Your favorite game: Busted radio, empty parking lot.

Stuff my heart in a plastic bag, and don’t look away. Man, I’ve seen the rifle

under your dirty jeans in the closet. The hunting knife with a gut hook

—the one I dreamt of kissing instead. I said, Christmas me the scalp.

Look into these taxidermy eyes and take off your clothes.

Call it forgiveness if you need something to believe in.

And when you dig inside—no gloves,

only church bells coated in winter skin:

I’ll open my mouth.

Let you cradle my breath,

TV static on your tongue

—tell me: Can a body of legs still find its way home?