Laying among the brown and green and red
its glassy eyes, faint and unfocused
against heavy breathing

Great job, my father’s knife unsheathes
he pats me on the back, hard and so loud
I must lean on my crossbow

We carry it back to his truck
a heavy mess, and it stinks
we work together

He tells me about his friends
the people he spends all his time with
how they all play Euchre

I ask how to play.  What is trump?
He laughs. The weight shifts
I’ve asked this so many times before

With a wet thud, we throw it in his truck bed
it hides beneath a tattered light blue tarp
fastened with frayed bungee cords

Driving, he talks about his softball team again
and in his cracked rearview mirror
the tarp lifts slightly, and I see its fat tongue

My head turns. The tears are too warm
I fall into my hands, cheeks swollen
my father focuses on the road, hands gripping the wheel