Candy Canes

“I didn’t want to hurt you”

The boy

In hunters orange

The boy

Smelling of acrid sweat

The boy

Blinks his tears away

They freeze on the skin of his cheeks in the cruel wind

And the deer,

Just a fawn

Draws her ragged breath

She screams

Probably for her mother

And

The little deer sounds

so like the boy’s littler baby brother

“I’m sorry. Dad made me do it.”

The deer

Wearing leaf litter and snow

The deer

Smelling of blood and fear

The deer

Each breath she takes, the arrow quivers

He never wanted to shoot her

He doesn’t want to do what comes next

But the deer is suffering, beneath the fragrant pines

And

Even without his father telling him

The boy knows

What he must do.

***

He pulls out his knife

Looks at the fawn’s fur

Matted

Muddied

Maroon

Around the poor thing’s wound

He doesn’t want to do this

He looks to his father

His father

In bright red flannel

His father smelling of tobacco

His father

Beaming with pride

“Get to work son. Don’t be a pussy.”

The dying deer rolls it’s big glassy eyes

And the boy squeezes his own shut

He turns his head

So proud father will not see his

Pussyish tears

Each breath is full of the pine wood smell

It used to be his favorite

And the boy clenches his teeth

And the boy gets to work

***

The tree shimmers in the corner

The whole house smells like pine

It turns the boy’s stomach

But the Angel

At the top of the tree

She is all shining smiles

She holds a banner that reads

“Peace on Earth”

Father is lounging by the wood stove

His feet are up and he’s sipping a beer

Baby brother is asleep

And mother is whistling in the kitchen

It’s a hymn

Hark! The Herald Angels Sing

***

“I’m so proud of my little man! Putting Christmas dinner on the table for us!”

His mother

In her green and red sweater

His mother

Smelling like pumpkin pie

His mother

Beaming with pride

She passes him the tenderloin:

Juices,

From the fawn

Soak into his mashed potatoes.

The boy tries to say thank you

But how can he eat?

His father claps his shoulder

His hand feels so heavy

So strong

The boy pries his own slender fingers apart

The boy picks up his fork

“Great work today son. You deserve the best cut.”

They’re watching him

Waiting for him to take the first bite

And the boy knows

What he must do

***

Dinner is still squirming

In the boy’s stomach

He thinks of fur

And tries not to hurl

He thinks of blood

On the snow

Of crimson red drops

On the purest white ice

***

Mother offers him a treat

For clearing the plates

A candy cane

***

***

***

This is what was stuck in my head while writing: