Funeral

Before you know what fear really is

you must catch yourself

in a split-second gaze

with the screaming yellow eyes

of the young buck in the middle of the road

that your father is about to hit.

The cold Suburban, a black

frosted night, the slip of the tires

the stick of the brakes.

You must jump

at your mother's gasp and

grab your brother's arm

with a grip so tight you can feel

his heart dumping blood into his veins.

You must hear the vibration

of animal meeting machine and

you must try to understand

what it's like

to be on the other side of the bumper.

You must stare at the blood

growing from its nose --

imprint it in your mind.

You must eat the venison stew

your mother made with reluctance.

You must eat it for weeks.

Before you can know the power of fear,

you must let

the buck's steady breath

warm your hands.