Postlapsarian Love

A buck and a doe. Entered the doe under the oak tree and a three day old horned moon. Insides poured out like flowers in a time-lapse clip. Pink nipples four in the white fur. Tore through blue cloaks of tendon to the mortal red fount. No fat to speak of. Less edible material than a labrador. Hours, hours of cutting with a dulling knife, separating gristle, bone, organs, air. Gorged. Flesh from her back dries in the kitchen.
Dreamed of love in the shadow of swords, without a sword.
Morning.
Went back to the sendero where the corn was laid out and sat on a bucket with my back to the rising sun. Gun in lap. Read those sections of The Second Sex entitled "The Lesbian" and "The Mother." No doe. Came home. Got my grandpa's shears out of the cabinet with his steel gray hairs stuck in them and shaved half my head. Only half.