Le Wang

Hunting Season

In September, my father wakes before the birds,
holding the morning’s pulse between his teeth.
In the yard, the air is still heavy with hunger.
We hide our knives in jacket seams, carry with us
a language of teeth. Lately, we don’t speak of winters.
His voice fades with the leaves. The cold swallows him anyway.
He tells me to watch the deer, how their eyes pearl
white. How the wolves salt their lips in anticipation.
At his suggestion, I practice listening for gunshots,
imagine the gun weighing heavy against my father,
his heart snagged on the trigger. Still, we make a fortune
off dying things. The antlers we took as trophies
curling into fists. When we leave, the wind gnaws
through our flesh despite our jackets. The night
scabbing over to keep the light out.

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Le Wang is from New York. Her work appears in or is forthcoming in wildness, Gigantic Sequins, Eucalyptus Lit and elsewhere. Her work has been recognized by the Alliance of Young Artists and Writers and Polyphony Lit’s Seasonal Contest.