Momma's Squirrel Stew

you find a recipe
folded in your cookbook.
evelyn gave it to you a long time
ago. it's for squirrel
stew. at the top in dark ink
is scrawled, Mommas Squirrel Stew.
you remember her showing
you the skinned
squirrels in her freezer.
the limp
pale bodies, bloodless,
furless, without
tails. lifeless, no longer
confused, darting
back and forth across
a road, now
marinating
in a red sauce.
it's hand written. she said
it was her
grandmother's recipe
that was used for generations
in the mountains
of Pennsylvania.
it's not much different
than any other meat,
she said, wearing her plaid
long dress,
bringing a pot over
to your house one night.
potatoes, carrots.
a little gamey,
but salt it down and add
some hot sauce.
you won't be disappointed.
you don't know what happened
to evelyn, there was a rumor
about a hunting accident,
but you aren't sure.
you fold the recipe
up and carefully place
it back into
your betty crocker cook book.