The Hanging On

By | 1 December 2022

First day. My father tracking one axis
deer. Tomorrow morning a fallow.
Come evening I’ll make fire and char the
meat for eating. My hands are good
at that now. Turning one thing to another.
I want to describe how once
this was the only place I could be what
I was but today what I want is to
go wherever my daughter is, in the years now
when the sun freckles her arms and dirt
cakes her fingernails. But that’s a feeling
I don’t have nouns for. I was the same age
when I watched my father take an axe to
the fox with a paw in the foot trap. The sound
that left it frightening rabbits from their warrens.

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