Nate Maxson
Introductions
When I was seven years old my friend Travis who lived across the street took me into his garage
to show me the deer his father had killed on a hunt which was
hanging upside down, blood dripping out into a drain
I was fascinated, it was my first real death
I reached over and touched the cool, stiff fur,
It swung slightly as if in a breeze
I felt the protrusion of its antlers, one of which was mere inches from the concrete floor
Travis explained to me, with great enthusiasm, how he and his father would strip the hide
after the blood was drained and keep the horns and have venison steaks and jerky
My father has never killed anything and at the moment I felt almost shameful because of it
A line of warped scripture that I didn’t know how I knew came to me
“Forgive us you animal for we know exactly what we do”
That still comes to me sometimes
Even as my memories yellow like newspaper in some places and coalesce around certain bright spots
I still have this, odd bloody gem: the buck hanged like the hanged man on a tarot card
For months I dreamed it swinging from the sky
Forgive us
We know
What kind of prayer would “let me live in this world” be anyway?
Nate Maxson is a writer and performance artist. The author of several collections of poetry, he lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Introductions
When I was seven years old my friend Travis who lived across the street took me into his garage
to show me the deer his father had killed on a hunt which was
hanging upside down, blood dripping out into a drain
I was fascinated, it was my first real death
I reached over and touched the cool, stiff fur,
It swung slightly as if in a breeze
I felt the protrusion of its antlers, one of which was mere inches from the concrete floor
Travis explained to me, with great enthusiasm, how he and his father would strip the hide
after the blood was drained and keep the horns and have venison steaks and jerky
My father has never killed anything and at the moment I felt almost shameful because of it
A line of warped scripture that I didn’t know how I knew came to me
“Forgive us you animal for we know exactly what we do”
That still comes to me sometimes
Even as my memories yellow like newspaper in some places and coalesce around certain bright spots
I still have this, odd bloody gem: the buck hanged like the hanged man on a tarot card
For months I dreamed it swinging from the sky
Forgive us
We know
What kind of prayer would “let me live in this world” be anyway?
Nate Maxson is a writer and performance artist. The author of several collections of poetry, he lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.