Deer I was the fawn in your soft bed: pillows of grass and brambles, blankets dyed with blackberries. You hung honeysuckle in the doorway. The dirt grew soft beneath our hooves. Rain like a motherâ€™s tongue. Flowers blossomed and died. Snow fell soft, mixed with feathers. I drank from your doe eyes. Your back was the curve of Earth as you pressed my hooves into soil. Moss grew, sheltered from the moon. Then, the day the owl fell from elm dead as a rat, into the brush. Her feathers floated away on the wind but her eyes remained open, yellow moons beckoning us to swim. We were bound, motionless, within a ring of stones.
Steps Magazine's second Fall semester issue.