Poetry by Sam Stebbins

              Timo Newton-Syms CC



​
​Aptitude Test

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_.