How to Skin a Deer
Your guess
is as good
as mine – I
am the baby
of soft city
slickers, but
my papaw
would have
known. He
grew up in
Appalachia,
helped me
with my
leaf projects
when mom
shrugged.
I failed
to ask him
enough. I
was never
tough, winced
when he
brandished
hot tweezers
to pull my
splinters.
Papaw,
can you hear?
I need to
skin a deer.
I want to
feed myself
with my own
knife. And cry
for the choice
I have made.
Mule deer
wander
my yard
unafraid, under
trees I am certain
have names.
Erica Reid’s debut collection Ghost Man on Second won the 2023 Donald Justice Poetry Prize and was published by Autumn House Press earlier this year. Erica’s poems appear in Rattle, Cherry Tree, Colorado Review, and more. ericareidpoet.com