Mismemory
The first time I shoot a bow, my yellow-feathered arrow hits the bullseye with a thunk. It’s precious, the moment between that first crunch & me nocking the next arrow, pulling back the 30-pound string, aiming, releasing. Precious—the beats between thuds one & two when he & I believe we share an affinity for something. The first time I shoot a bow, my yellow-feathered arrow hits the bullseye. The crunch. It’s precious now, that Goddamn! Look at you darlin! moment. I string the next arrow, pull back, aim, release. In the steady breaths between thuds one & two he & I share an affinity for projectiles. The first time I shoot, my yellow-feathered arrow hits the foam deer in its foam heart. The crunch. It’s precious, that Goddamn look at me moment when he pats my shoulder. I string the next arrow & he tells me that’s called nocking an arrow. I pull back, shoot again. The whip-poor-will calls & calls—its pattern a tiny infinity. The first time I shoot I hit it in the heart. Who’s to say whose heart is real & whose is foam. The crunch. It’s that Goddamn moment when he pats my shoulder. I string the next arrow & the next & the next. I’m nocking an arrow Daddy. I pull back, shoot again & again & the whip-poor-will calls & calls & calls & calls & I shoot, I hit it in the heart. Who’s to say who’s real. I string the next arrow & the next & the next & he tells me I’m doing it wrong & I think I probably am but I pull back, shoot again. The whip-poor-will calls. I miss the target—I shoot, hit something else. What’s real what’s real. I string the next arrow. He tells me I’m doing it wrong. I pull back, I shoot. I hit the whip-poor-will—I hit the whip-poor-will. I shoot what’s real. I shoot it to pieces—
Arranged skins
The creatures in our freezer have matted coats & stiff tongues between their
teeth. Small, tanned bodies wait in plastic bags, the bigger ones double-
wrapped in aluminum. For years a buck’s bust sleeps with burned ice cream
& okra.
To pluck out something’s slick parts & plant marbles in its sockets is godly.
To pin a hide to a wall & call it providing is the godliest.
In our home: 1 goose, 5 largemouth bass, 3 pheasants, 3 white-tailed deer.
&.
re verse sacrifice: look what you can take
& unmake when you mean
it
enough
&.
The goose—mounted to driftwood, yellowing & slime-eyed—came from a
flea market in the North Georgia mountains. From a leathery vendor who
sold live rabbits, knives, cassette tapes, expired Avon products.
Daddy packed the dusty thing with the four of us in the 2-door Ford
Bronco, & the goose shook her head as we wound skyward into cloud.
He climbed high
high: Forgiveness is a circle a circle a circle a circle.
&.
&.
Taxidermy is the art of arranging skin.
A mismemory is a dead fish: cut up, reassembled on a mannequin,
glossy with formaldehyde.
&.
His patterns are my patterns: I feel this in my teeth.
Dual citizens of a mill village & daydream, we
fill our pockets with earth,
make our beds from feathers, hides, & spit.
He believes
he shot
that goose
himself.
& he just didn’t.
&.
The bird’s neck breaks when we swerve into the shoulder & come to a
sudden stop. Then Daddy pulls himself from the car to wretch among the
ditch lilies.
When something is made from wood, wool, wire, & clay,
you can fix it with wood, wool, wire, & clay.
Outside the leaves patter, the insects hum. The sky winks electric blue. He
uses his whole body. Tries to turn himself inside out.
Originally from the tiny mill village of Sargent, Georgia, Ashley Dailey is a writer and multimedia artist whose work is published or forthcoming in Plume Poetry, Aquifer: The Florida Review Online, Breakwater Review, Peatsmoke Journal, and elsewhere. She is a finalist for the 2021 Peseroff Prize in Poetry and the winner of an Academy of American Poets Prize. She received her MFA from the University of Tennessee, where she served as poetry editor for Grist Journal and hosted the virtual reading series Chiasmus. In fall 2021 she will begin pursuing her PhD in Creative Writing and Literature at the University of Southern California.