Dad shot it in the head
and hung its corpse, trophy-like,
from the bucket of a caterpillar.
It dripped clouds of red smoke
in the mouth of our driveway,
evaporating life from a fresh wound.
We scalded fur to reveal naked flesh;
death stench alive in our nostrils
and murderous thoughts gaping our maws.
Hot water rolled, fur-caked,
thick as thunder clouds
from its now rigid body,
and as I drew
the knife further down,
the earth gorged on all
we didn’t want.
Kevin LeMaster has been writing poetry for over twenty years, but more seriously for the past seven years, and has been sending it to publishers for submission during this time. His poetry has appeared in Ygdrasil, Counterpunch.org, Tapestries, Silhouette, Word Catalyst, and The Portsmouth Times. Kevin lives in Kentucky with his wife of 26 years and four children. He has said, “If I couldn’t write poetry, I couldn’t breath. It is like oxygen to me.”