Memaw writes on the back of each photo
like she wants to make sure we remember
where we came from and who we are.
Cursive dries while a boy smiles
beside a wet carcass of fur, slick organs
and glinting eyes. Brothers and uncles in camouflage spit
sunflower seeds on the ground and clean pocketknives
on pant legs to slice apples and guide
weepy hunks up to their mouths.
Everything knows its place––the antlers,
motionless as scorched flowers. The only working
speaker in the pickup door pumping
fuzzy anthems like blood from a weak heart.
Skin is tugged off like tall boots
while the men fumble around behind the bones,
dumping organs on a tarp for the father to name.
The uncle with a birthmark below his eye
jerks hacksaw teeth across the spine,
sweat from his nose falling in droplets.
Blood yawns from the body, strung up on an old swing set,
pecans grunting as they land on an overturned
bucket in the grass. It is early. Mother
and the peas in the garden are still asleep.