We fished all summer. My father taught me

to bait a hook with a worm, then a minnow,

then a crayfish. Learning torture like Russian

dolls, each body a grosser, wider death. The cooler

filled with ice was a mass grave of thrashing

bodies. Hours before, it held ham and cheese

sandwiches my mother packed. I was instructed

to eat them without worrying about the entrails

and dirt under my nails. God made dirt. God made

killing easier than I thought it would be. After that,

I didn’t think twice about the sacrifice

of small things. More worms, then salamanders,

then the idea of me. My father fitted me

with a hunting cap and rifle. He didn’t ask

if I liked it. In the morning, we went out looking

for deer. I remember it was the first snow

of the season. I liked to watch the flakes

melt on my camouflage jumper. I asked

if we were invisible. Our feet leaving

tracks gave me my answer. In a few hours,

our footsteps were speckled with the blood

of fresh kill. I will say it all flattened me:

the doe’s black saucer eyes, the rare sight

of his smile, the cruelty of innocence.