The Hunt - Linda Liang
The rabbit on your plate seems to be writhing,
but it’s the sauce, (boiled in it’s own innards, poor rabbit)
that is truly alive,
air rising towards the surface as it undulates,
moves in perfect currents.
The rabbit’s blood congeals
around the curves of your fingers.
You peer at it,
such a strange and prostrate casualty -
pupils like shattered compasses,
directionless relics staring straight into your own.
Your father only ever looked at you
through the corners of his own eyes.
You kept quiet, lived in the damp
edges, scrubbed mold out of the sink,
as he cleaned the muzzles of his guns.
Sometimes he would hobble to the front porch,
fire at the falling leaves - a last surrender,
a small fraction of defeat.
Now, the sacrifice has been made.
Bits of fur cling to your neck,
your shoulders,
your arms
when he meets your gaze
at last, like an auctioneer appraising his
newest acquisition.
In the background you hear the rabbit
draw its last shuddering breath.
You want to say a prayer but
remember the feel of the rifle clutched
in your hands
too late, fingers already twining and untwining
like the underbrush when you took
aim, and like deliverance
felt everything and nothing
at once.
but it’s the sauce, (boiled in it’s own innards, poor rabbit)
that is truly alive,
air rising towards the surface as it undulates,
moves in perfect currents.
The rabbit’s blood congeals
around the curves of your fingers.
You peer at it,
such a strange and prostrate casualty -
pupils like shattered compasses,
directionless relics staring straight into your own.
Your father only ever looked at you
through the corners of his own eyes.
You kept quiet, lived in the damp
edges, scrubbed mold out of the sink,
as he cleaned the muzzles of his guns.
Sometimes he would hobble to the front porch,
fire at the falling leaves - a last surrender,
a small fraction of defeat.
Now, the sacrifice has been made.
Bits of fur cling to your neck,
your shoulders,
your arms
when he meets your gaze
at last, like an auctioneer appraising his
newest acquisition.
In the background you hear the rabbit
draw its last shuddering breath.
You want to say a prayer but
remember the feel of the rifle clutched
in your hands
too late, fingers already twining and untwining
like the underbrush when you took
aim, and like deliverance
felt everything and nothing
at once.
***
Linda is a poet working in the deep recesses of Michigan. She has previously attended the Kenyon Review Writer’s Workshop, and is currently working on her first chapbook.
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