To Sleep
The pink sun has fled
to its bedchamber,
leaving my hands darkened—wrapping
‘round the sleeping beast
his prayers, shadows and starshine
his hooves, bent toward the bloody moon
begging for forgiveness
as my fingers trace
the familiar road
from ankle to throat—plucking
crimson secrets—baring
them to the night.
My father taught me this:
his hands, a guide
Tear the skin from the weeping meat
you must move quickly.
I watched the blade dance between fur and
flesh, his stone hands steadying mine
Go to sleep, tell them
tell them to go to sleep,
and my hands slept.
They slept
as he pulled the covers ‘round me,
the same ritual done to the deer
to preserve the flesh. The force
of his looming hands
Go to sleep, go
to sleep.
J.A. Holm hails from Southeastern Pennsylvania and is currently an MFA candidate at Virginia Commonwealth University where he is an associate copyeditor for Blackbird. He holds a BA in creative writing from Bucknell University where he was an editorial intern for West Branch Magazine. His work appears in Shenandoah, Bellevue Literary Review, Impostor and other places. He is also the recipient of a Cadigan Prize for Younger Writers.