There were three of us that day -- my father, the gun, and me. The ground was frozen white, the sparse woods a patchwork of dark and light. Metallic smell of snow in the air. My father placed his hand on my shoulder. We walked that way for a time. I'd lost one sodden, red mitten when we startled deer in the woods off to the right. One doe stood rooted. Stared. So did my father. The deer scattered. The doe stumbled. Fell on her side with a crash. She cried out. Her eyes were pleading and frantic at the same time. I thought she would never get up. I knocked my father's arm just as he shot. I was sure she was dead, but she crawled to her knees, then stood and limped away. A red ribbon staining the snow. My father chased her down. Said it had to be done. I still see those eyes in my dreams. In my dark. My father suddenly a stranger in the harsh white glare.  

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A few years ago a literary agent who was considering my novel loved a couple poems I had written for the novel, but ultimately rejected the novel. That was the start of my poetry career. My poems have been published in canwehaveourballback, [plug].poetry, Delirium Journal, Clara Venus, and one, published in the August edition of Chronogram Magazine, was actually sold -- for $10. Of course that didn't pay for the champagne I had to buy to celebrate.
E-mail: jkp3 at cornell dot edu
 

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