whose homeschooled deerlings call the dead telephone poles
who bully the fences decategorizing the high desert
who swallow the hysterical to become sluts
who spit to don flickering halos
the glint of which pry out hunters’ retinas, thin cloud of wet microscopes
The deer somehow—
not for lack but of trying to lack
too near us, and so frequently
are given rooms
but how we’ve won is when the deer absent themselves
and leak privately
—know I am a mother.
Your black air.
How you’d end me
Your poems, to-do ists.
Calling you riend,
My hands flat
Against your ack.
Your ands against
A body walking from a lake
Wants to never have been pushed in.
A star wants only a little something:
A beautiful story.
It never ceases to amaze me
That at the end of your neck
Is a drill, a fountain, the tragedy
I told you the best word is yes
And you said, no, elbow.
Band-Aid in the pool.
return to ISSUE THREE