I Am Thinking Of My First Deer

A doe, her legs spread open
in the back of my father’s truck. Her body
a white map next to the blue sky and when
my father turns her over she is the color of dirt.
My small hand went into the cave of her death.
She was warm and my fingers smelt of sage
and blood. I pieced her together in my mind
as my brothers removed her skin. I gave her back
her body, the same way I was promised
Jesus would return to us on earth. I am thinking
of my first deer because you are sleeping
still and underneath your lids, your eyes are open.
My fingers smell slightly of things broken
and I realize you are always frightened
of the way I open myself and how I must
swallow up every sadness. I wonder if somehow
I have always known you. If you have returned
and risen in another form, as the angels promised
and somehow left behind the wild fur of death.
I see your eyes even though you are sleeping.
I need to know this sadness will not swallow me up
that somehow we will leave this animal.