ANNA GIRGENTI

My mother sautés strips of it in a skillet  

with olive oil—her fingers sprinkle rosemary  

and thyme over the dark meat,  

                  tender fist-sized steaks, fried strips  

dripping with butter. 

It sits in a pie dish under a heat lamp. 

She mixes salad dressing, chops cabbage  

next to the sink, pours herself a glass of wine, unties her apron.  

When she rests her palm on my head  

she leaves the scent of thyme in my hair.  

 

One by one, the seven of us sit around a long table.  

               It, the venison, shines in its dish,  

dark brown strips, slight pink inside.  

                             I believe this meat to be  

my parents’ great love story—  

from arrow to sprig of rosemary, one force  

to slice and another to season.  

I keep it tucked in my mouth for longer than usual, 

making the flavor last  

even after dinner ends, dishes soak,  

my brothers and I run to the woods  

to catch fireflies, and my mother closes  

              like a window for the night, into which my father  

cannot climb or even see, 

 

and I still taste it after dark, standing in front of the doe 

             hanging upside down in our garage—  

her stomach open and pitted,  

her fur rough against my fingers, her great body  

             a hollow tabernacle radiating light,  

a prayer I have not yet learned.