The way your stomach seizes and the light turns greenish grey when the night you spent glazed open slithers into daytime. These hours, when the sky resembles a screen, are the best hours for turkey hunting, in that place you left in such a rush. When you go back it’s shrunken. You wonder if you’re sleeping or if you’ve forced your own forgetting. Here are the magnolias – or where they used to be, and here is where you turned left on your way to school. Where are the bricks, the rose bushes, the basketball hoop you never used? You see yourself unlocking the door, staring up at the taxidermized turkey over the mantelpiece. It posed above your childhood, unblinking. Now meet its marble gaze.
-- Shelby Dale DeWeese grew up on a farm in the southeastern United States, but now lives and writes in California. She earned her MFA from the University of San Francisco, and her poems have been published by Rust+Moth, Quaint Magazine, and other publications. She is the social media manager for Pinwheel, a journalist for MuggleNet, and a programs coordinator at 826 Valencia.