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.