The slow roll of the hill, the grass climbing it,
I know their secret. My father says
this is where we kill the deer. There
is blood there just below the roots.
My grandfather says this is where
we pluck the geese, his hands deftly pulling
pinfeathers between dull knife and thumb,
thin streams of red running round the follicles,
down the drain, the crack of wet burning wood
in the outdoor brick oven. My brother
baits his hooks with fish. Seems gruesome
to bait a creature with its kin, but he says
big fish eat little fish. And I watch
as cousin Joe Ed shoots a porcupine and says,
Well, little girl, what should we do with it?
on tiptoe I say,
Pluck him and eat him.