Brandon Lopez is a Chicano writer, living and working in Portland, Oregon. He grew up in Maine. He often writes about the spaces between cultures, or the parts that more often go unseen. This is his first publication.
HUNGER
Tattoo stood in the cold autumn air
ink stained his skin like inflamed claw marks
Deer grazed crab apples in the pasture
beyond the squatted tract of farmland
The thick pungent taste of venison
taunted his desire
Felonies and the courts forbid him
firearms
With a salt lick stuck under the tree, he climbed
lumbering his bulk through the lower branches
The day, slate gray like jail walls
Poised, he gripped a thick handled knife,
blade bright under the pallid sky,
smooth edge sneering violently
Deer emerged from the brush
cloven hooves touched lightly on
the crisp fallen leaves
A buck crowned in furry antlers
paused at the lick
Knife held high, Tattoo dropped
stabbed hard into the shoulder
striking heart
Blood pumped thick from the wound
as it kicked in spasm
Tattoo hugged the buck closely, like it was
his to possess, and it was
TIME SERVED
We drove the backways of Maine
Down rural country roads littered with repair shops
that spilled rusted parts onto unmowed lawns
Forgotten churches, with white paint chipped onto
the ground below like fallen angels gathered in death
Her body sat nestled in the passenger seat
head turned to scan for deer in the open fields
hands tucked tight under her thighs like a little girl
The towns we passed, unchanged by the years
what looked like poverty was a simple approach to life
the libraries, post offices and churches
all looked like churches
Lakes, rivers and streams passed on both sides
as we meandered through the thick deer woods
Abandoned cemeteries sprinkled the shoulders of the road
small plots framed by mossy wrought iron fences
family plots of a few dozen headstones
forgotten names rubbed smooth by countless winters
Arriving at our destination, we stepped into the cold
hats pulled low, collars up, backs stiff against the wind
a simple nod of agreement put us back in the car
That was pretty
Yes it was
We drove the old highways back to town
past the lakes, rivers, cemeteries, spilled guts of repair shops
variety stores and churches
The silence cleaved us like the rivers that scarred the land
EXHALE
Harry drove down a pockmarked dirt road
headlights pitched as if at sea
Arm rested in the open window
cigarette pinched between fingers
The cool air chilled his feverish face
he drove until the road ran out
then pulled onto an overgrown shoulder
and tore a can from its plastic ring
His jaw set tight with despair
the can clanked against the floorboard at his feet
He didn’t look up at the stars he couldn’t name
or all the plants cataloged by dead men
Crickets ebbed and flowed
as if tugged by the moon
a bullfrog groaned for a mate
The smell of hay, light and sweet like his beer
mixed with his cigarette
A horse whinnied in the distance
Harry listened for the first time that night
The can fell with the others
cigarette clamped between clenched teeth
he reached for another beer and
grabbed the rifle racked behind his head
Two steps through tall grass bridged a shallow gully
Eyes adjusted to the dark
the rifle cracked as the horse dropped where it stood
the clamor in Harry’s head cleared
He scanned for another
nothing
Face rubbed with cold hands, thirst quenched
he drove home through the crisp night air
LONG RANGE
Men gathered in a stark garage to
drink and take pills
Dale arrived late, having spent the day
in the rushed cold of the north
with hopes to fill a freezer
with venison
Inside the men relaxed against the
violence of their daily lives
bottles passed between hands
scarred from work and fist fights
pills swallowed whole or crushed
and snorted with a delicate touch
A bare bulb cast ugly shadows as
Dale sloshed like dirty bath water
the room pulsed as he paused for footing
His boots crunched the hard packed snow
At his truck, the knife-sharp
air sobered him momentarily
Inside, rifle across his lap
Dale turned the gun in his hands
showed the men his new toy
With a careless caress the rifle slipped
stock first against the floor
recoiling on impact
the bullet ripped through his jaw
Bone, cartilage, and flesh
scattered like deer in a field
Dale pressed his hands against
the remnants of his face
A lone tooth sat perched on a shelf
as if placed carefully, like
a trinket from a summer trip
The paramedics arrived as
Dale scratched a note they
didn’t bother to read