Getting dark early he’s home
back from tramping the fields

In the stream yellow leaves float over frogs
bloated with leeches
clear cool water washing swollen bodies
long dead
he’s home in rough green wool and orange felt
blind to the colors of the fall

me standing there eye-level to the sideboard
fleas crawl off the rabbit he shot for supper
me the tender-hearted hunter of red-belly snakes
and wood mice in the barn
hot in burning hate
me of the cropped hair
me of the cotton flannel and cold feet
me of the rage-aching belly that hurts so much

sticking in the knife he rips the gut
blood drips to the floor next to the cat dish
I get the washrag and wipe it up
I won’t eat it
he can’t make me
I’ll throw it up
no
I’ll pretend I need to pee
and spit it out in the toilet
I do that a lot because he loves me
and always lets me go