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To the last deer dead during the antler-lock If the wind was visible, tell me if you noticed it or if you looked dead
center down the valley of your snout into the wet-black nose of your foe.
Did your shoulders pulsate pain or become numb when your closest
enemy dropped to his knees? And how long until you dropped to yours? Tell me
how your neck burned, if the lactic acid started there then crept along your back,
if it kicked its shoes off and made a home in the fast twitch fibers of your thighs.
Tell me if the grooves in your hooves planted heart-shaped imprints, or if you didn’t look,
if seeing your own marks on earth would be too ironic, would be looking into death’s reflection.
Tell me when your rage wore off, when your testosterone levels dropped. Tell me when
you opened your mouth to breathe. I want to know when you decided
to stop flicking your ears of flies and blinking your eyes.
How heavy did that dead weight feel, when did you fully lie down
and did you wish to be a doe? I want to know if the struggle
stopped you or you stopped your struggle. If you felt you won. If you pulled his body
across sticks and crackling leaves like Achilles to Hector. If you curled
your body into his for the warmth.
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