The Deer Stand: A Prose Pantoum
1.
When November comes, I join my lover in the deer stand, his mittened hand gripping mine from the moment we enter the woods ’til we reach the east ridge, just over an hour before dusk. There, something primal yawns open inside me. From our pockets we unpack cheese and sausage and a thermos of spiked cider, the last flicker of fall leaves stirring dry and leathery in the tops of the oak trees. You can see into the woods but not through, and I keep waiting for something gray as bark to move.
2.
We sit in silence, and something primal yawns open inside me. I watch my lover’s exhale linger in front of his face, and he stares as though if he looks hard enough, something will materialize like his breath, the invisible taking form. You can see into the woods but not through, and I keep feeling a hunger in my gut that the self-evolved part of me so often tries to bully out of existence. I am both aroused and embarrassed by how much I want to watch this man bag something wild with antlers, bring home meat for winter, build a fire in our home, and cook its hindquarters for dinner.
3.
I watch the breath linger in front of my face, the invisible taking form. The women in my family have always left the hunt to the men; I go because I like being quiet in the woods, because I also want to be capable of feeding myself off the land I live on. So I am both aroused and embarrassed by how much I want to watch my man do the things men do to feel like men, perhaps like the very first men–using tools, using their hands, acting out the tenants of survival, offering up skill and provision. Maybe it’s the deer in rut or the scent of doe urine on the tree, maybe it’s the wetness of afternoon sex still lingering in the warmest part of me, but the self that has never yearned for motherhood now wonders what it’d be like to hold his child there, to feel his hand on both of us, keeping us fed and safe while the days grow colder and darker.
4.
I have never been comfortable leaving the hunt to the men; I go because I like the sacredness of the woods, because I fear relying on anyone or anything too much. When we finally do see a buck, my lover offers me first rights, mouthing the question soundlessly, asking whether I want to take the shot–but I shake my head. Maybe its the warmth of our blaze-orange bodies pressed side by side, his palm resting on top of my camo-clad thigh, but the self that has always feared motherhood now wonders what it’d be like to feed his child through the winter, to feel a steady hand on both of us. When my lover raises the gun, I do not feel weaker or helpless; I think about how much easier survival is together than alone.
5.
He’s offered me a shot that I like to think I could take, but I don’t regret turning it down. From where we sit, the last flicker of fall leaves stir dry and leathery in the tops of the oak trees. My lover lodges the gun in the steady pocket of his shoulder, and I feel solid in his solidness; I think about how much easier it is for us to survive together than apart. It’s the first days of November and it is the season I join my lover in the deer stand, his mittened hand gripping mine on the east ridge of the woods, the sky turning to dusk around us.
Emma Kaiser is the winner of the Norton Writers Prize and Gesell Award for Nonfiction. Her work is featured in River Teeth, The Normal School, Allegory Ridge Nonfiction Anthology, Craft, Cutbank, Rock & Sling, and elsewhere, and she is the author of twenty children’s nonfiction books. She holds a Creative Writing MFA from the University of Minnesota.
