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KATRINA TURNER

 

 

 

Katrina Turner is an MFA candidate at the Iowa Writers' Workshop. She grew up in a Vermont forest, where she was able to solidify her "anywhere but here" mentality.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hunt

 

i.

if my father’s a meat he’s an ice bite of venison

cut from a deer that he shot down himself

 

in the moon-stippled dawnlight, the bruised growing

daylight as frost-dripping lancets of

 

pine swarm our eyes—

 

 

 

ii.

when it’s morning,

and we begin as we’re supposed to, dead and then

waking and yawning and stretching our arms

like we’ve realized only now

that they’re ours, when it’s morning,

and the shadows (and the things that sleep well

within shadows) cling tight to the

bodies they belong to—

 

 

 

iii.

if my father’s a flush cut of venison sliced

up and served out to all of us baked on an intricate

silver brick plate

 

then he’s cut from a deer he’s been hunting for months

he’s cut from a deer he’s been watching

for months has been following neatly

a beige-bister deer with four jagged feet that are

hard-pressed in tracks in the supple plush

earth that he stamps on

 

as quietly as he knows how to—

 

 

 

iv.

if my father’s a deer

then I bet he’s still writhing and begging for life

on a raw forest floor bogged

with lichen, and shale, I bet he’s still squirming and

staring now up at the filigree grill that

the trees make, waiting

for light to leak through

 

 

 

v.

if my father’s a meat he’s still

bleeding through plastic wrap

straight onto grocery store shelves

 

when the time comes I lift

him to carry him home and I’m lacquered then

mauve trickle blood and can feel it tongued through

the cracks of my hands as if

it’s my own, and for a moment I worry

it might be, I check my body for wounds, I keep

searching and prodding to ensure that I’m bleeding then too

 

 

 

©2017 Katrina Turner

 

 

 

 

 

 

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