GREAT UNCLE CARL-CHRISTIAN (B. 1903) WITH STAG The fir trunks rise around him like cathedral piers. Hands in greatcoat pockets, hat brim tipped to shade his eyes. Vest, collar, tie. The rifle’s leather band, slung round his shoulder, gleams. Long Tielsch nose and narrow, handsome face. Eldest son, set to inherit this land, these trees. How long still will that future bend to his imagining? For now, no war mars the horizon. Stretched out across the frame, the stag lies at his feet. It’s huge. Five points — or more? Tangled in brush and forest litter, the rack’s obscured by shade. Underbelly white in sunlight; down the midsection (far from the heart) a narrow trickle. That can’t be my father, my aunt says, peers at the photo print. He’d never make a kill that messy, or pose with it. (Monika Cassel)
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Oh my gosh! Your daily poems are one of the first things I read every morning, but I never expected to see my own poem in my inbox this way! Thank you so much for reading and sharing, Robin!