Michael Meyerhofer - Second Place P oem-
The First Kill When grandfather shot his first buck of the season, a great leg-tangled nine-point raised on wheat-fetch and fields of rain-slogged cornwaste, he sawed off its sorry head and nailed it as-is above the garage door, so that for months afterward, Sunday visits meant braving flesh-flies, down-shed tatters of hide and sinew frozen stiff in winter's papyrus, droppings stewed in snowmelt until sagegrass sprung from driveway gravel, and that breeze-blasted deer skull loomed clean as a footprint overhead. I was nine. In church, flushed priests said Christ turned Jew-water into wine and hailed rotten Lazarus from the grave, even as sag-breasted schoolmarms chalked out the cell walls of plants and taught us how the universe was stretching like a lie from its bedrock of nothing, hinged like the bones of dinosaurs and the skulls of schoolboys on matter, sunlight, this many calories and hormones kicking growth from a mother-seed that once roamed wild through still fie lds, awaiting the doom of its own birth.
The Literary Digest of the University of Idaho