Timo Newton-Syms CC
My birth certificate looks like forgery,
ink crooked and smudged, copy paper creased.
Blame it on my birthplace, where
everything was just good enough. Back then, I was told
again and again to be a taxidermist. Never mind
I didn’t have the stomach to skin and stuff
an animal, never mind I grieved
for creatures dead in the road.
Before snow fell, the neighbors
strung deer by their necks
in the front yard, tongues lolling out,
blood drying in fur.
I couldn’t fault them for keeping
my friends fed through winter. Yes,
we ate what we could kill.
By spring the mud gave up its bones.
Our dogs brought parts of wild
animals home, and it’s so much easier
to see dirt in the light.
There, the sun hides for five long months.
Sam Stebbins is a poet from Michigan. Her work has previously appeared in "Barren Magazine," "Crab Fat Magazine," "Cease, Cows," and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter @samstebbins_.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.