Deer Hunting
“And the Lord saith unto Satan, Behold, all that he hath is in thine hand now
—Job 1:12
Beware the trust of the Lord: 
the snout cast down, deadened eyes back
in their slits—my father lifts
the twisted neck by the antler rack.
 
This picture was the last:
and, perched on the tailgate, a grin
for the flash, he commemorates
the body: whole, with its skin
 
tight over muscled flesh.
Held by its joints, deer skinned and strung
from the apple tree—we ate
the dark meat. Years from this, the tongue
 
of the tree-stand angled, snapped.  
My father fell, splintered his spine.
Buried by leaves, he prayed 
for mercy, for an answer, a sign: 
 
the voice from that whirlwind,
God gave His reason: Who gave birth
to the hoarfrost of heaven?
And from whose womb did the ice come forth?
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