The Dead Deer
This is how I know I was crazy:
I took photos of decomposing deer.
Me, the one who walked out of biology
when we had to pierce a one-celled bug,
invisible except to my sense of decency.
Yep, that was me, watching flies burrowing
in bones and maggots under skin, me inhaling
the violent stench that was my life--and laughing.
Twenty years ago, I killed a catch-and-release
fish, refused to eat meat for a year. But
at 35 or 6, I stared at eaten ears, me,
who had never even looked at death or drugs, me
on too much Prozac, higher than a hawk.
Thanks, doc. I let chiggers gnaw my ankles.
I scratched until I bled. I daydreamed
of gun barrels against my head.
Should I get rid of that old photo?