Elk Skin and Deer Teeth

          It’s always the eyes, 

Always, that make people uncomfortable if looked at for far too long. 

Direct eye contact with something unblinking, unmoving, 

Renders a more conscious mind suddenly and viciously 

Aware of just how conscious it can possibly, impossibly, be. 

Maybe this happens in a character creator in a video game, 

Where the making of this exact figure has you locking eyes with something 

Heartless, breathless, soulless, 

          And being forced to focus on it. 

          It happens with deer as well, 

Always, when hunters for sport or pleasure or obligation rip bullets 

Through their flesh and viscera and force them horizontal, 

And as they walk over to see their new mantlepiece, centerpiece, 

They have to look the creature in its big, unblinking eyes, 

Carrion flies already beginning to vomit their meal onto it. 

Does it make it better, hunters of my antlered beasts, to secure its parts, now, 

Heartless, breathless, soulless, 

          And not have the whole body staring at you? 

          So a knife is used, 

Always, and the corpse is brutalized in a way that would make any Ivory Ancestor 

Beam and applaud with pride. As the warm body is skinned, its muscle 

Made all the more easy for ravenous scavengers to feast on, as the skull has its teeth 

Ripped out, don’t worry, it won’t feel it. It won’t feel this. Just focus. Pull. Ignore how 

Wet the sound is as the root is stolen from the jaw. 

Congratulations, you have your prizes now, teeth and flesh, from this 

Heartless, breathless, soulless, 

          Creature that looks at you while you ruin it. 

          The skull is left, 

Always, until a different type of hunter picks it up. 

The artist sees its beauty, and takes it into their coven. 

Never again will it be set free, but it shall now be a centerpiece, 

Painted with stripes and shapes, its antlers crowned with marigolds. 

They will stare into those hollow sockets, imagining those eyes, 

And never feeling discomfort. Never looking at it as 

Heartless, breathless, soulless. 

          But powerful. Revered. Sacred. 

          It is now of the night, 

Always, the subject of whispered rituals cast in moonlight. 

The hunters might have a carpet, dusty and sad on a wooden wall. 

The hunters might have a foul, sweaty, necklace of its teeth. 

But the deer now has the teeth of others to speak through, 

it has the skin of a religion to wear and move with, 

And to show the hunters who is really 

Heartless. Breathless. Soulless. 

          Animosty will swallow you.