Lora Robinson

lost in the back holler of God’s country
you’re ten, sitting on a crick bank

holding a pretty bird too closely.
ball your fists when her neck slumps,

rattle the carcass, and curse the callous
sunglow. you are twenty years removed

from gliding metals and taxidermy mantles-
a hunting lodge is the family home.

somewhere in the shadows, where all the blue jays
are broken, and happiness sleeps under your pillow.

come, see the fleshy planks and rotting roof-
behold, the beauty of the death you wrought.