Venison

It is hunting season

in Jersey today.

They say

“There are too many deer

in Jersey today.”

I wake up at eleven,

to the sound of nothing,

and then to a crack

in my backyard.

Outside, I see

at the edge of the wood

a weak fawn wearing holes

and a man in orange, in the ferns.

He stares at me,

but we both know:

“There are too many deer in Jersey today.”

By the afternoon, there is

a stormcloud in the distance,

— The heat could never have lasted  —

and twenty pounds of venison

portioned for the month

sitting on my doorstep.