God Bless the Backcountry

From the Deer Stand

 I’ve never seen my father
 look so small before.
 My feet, in the velcro shoes,
 dangle from the ledge
 of the almost-treehouse.
 But this is for killing.
 Beyond the acre of browning
 grass the bay is still
 as a made bed. Behind me,
 more trees. More crisping leaves,
 more whistling from the barn swallow.
 The sun is rising in front of us, the field
 barely shadowed by the low-sitting house
 that my grandparents built. And my father,
 below me, stands with his arms apart.
 In his green shirt, his gun in one hand
 and his other palm open to the cold air,
 he appears as if he’s on the cross
 but prepared to defend himself.
 I am so young here. My jacket swishes
 when I move and my father spins
 and puts a finger to his lips. Quiet,
 he says, they can hear everything.
 Can I tell you a secret?
 We sat in the quiet
 for hours imagining footsteps.
 My father never killed anything,
 but forgive him if he says he has.


To the Backcountry

 God bless our cars
 for carrying all this death.
 How many times have I
 helped my father hoist the bodies
 of dead deer into the cab of his truck?
 Nothing is as chilling as the sound
 of a carcass rolling in the bed
 like a collection of loose bottles.
 Highbeams penetrate the dark
 every mile or so, recurring as a dream.
 There are moths scattered
 on every windshield
 in the county. God bless
 the backcountry.
 There is no one
 in the passenger seat
 but our former selves,
 lively and harmless as violins.
 The grass beside us nothing
 but a suggestion of green.
 God bless the lowland
 and its thick air. We travel
 through the night looking
 for things to set fire to.
 God bless us we are alive
 and possibly dangerous.