GRADUATION DAY by Meggie Royer • Cleaver Magazine
My grandmother braids her hair with salt, forgives my brother for every broken-legged deer he coaxes out of the brush. We draw their hot red flanks into our mouths for every new meal we can afford, antlers hanging beneath the chipped mantle like sullen ghosts. Years later he will graduate to bringing women home for feasting, their bodies smeared into want on the basement floor.