"
The Lesson
I was young when my father called me to the back door
to show me the brain of the white-tailed deer
he had shot and had been flaying
in the garage. He had hacksawed off
the skull’s cap to save the antlers, which he would nail,
once the little flap of hide had peeled away,
beside the others on the wall. The brain
was smallish, wrinkled, gelatin; it oozed
into the board he’d laid it on. He touched it lightly
with his hunting knife, and caused a little slit
to open around the knife’s tip. I wondered
if anything remained: the detailed sketches
of each rise and crevice of the hills; the language
of scent and gesture; the image of my father
as he raised his gun and fired. We stood
in silence, the mute brain congealing between us,
my father holding it toward me as if to say,
Look, son, this is the world.
"