Ritual
I am learning what men do and why they do it. Today, my father
teaches me fear. Mother watches from the house. I watch as if I am outside
myself, see the tense ripple of my arm pulling back and study the way an arrow
interrupts the joint of the deer, making the round movement of running
impossible. I watch myself pull my arm back again. The pop of the heart splitting
open. The fawn long fled, his body an arc of water in the green.
The static of the field. Dark shapes
and breath against purpled sky.
I turn my flashlight on, trying to catch the gleam.
First blanket of dark, then nuance as my gaze adjusts. I find her on her side,
black marble bloodslick. It bores into me
even in bed later. Father says no such thing as murder
to an animal. Under the cover
of starless night, I dreamt I spent my life.
SEBASTIAN BRONSON BODDIE (they/them/theirs) is a Caribbean-American nonbinary poet from New Jersey whose work explores memory, family, nature, and the practice of witness. With their work, they attempt to learn more about themself and the world around them. They are a recent MFA graduate of the University of Maryland.