The Fawn
A very old poem I wrote a very long time ago.
She opens the heart-shaped box, a fawn with polycephaly buried beneath a doily tablecloth, its legs folded in half to fit inside the cardboard.
A cigarette burns near her heavy thighs. A springtime in the country reminding us why the devil exists.
Fuzzy moss adorns the pages of her diary. Sixth-grade love notes preserved in plastic. Do you want to kiss after school?
His blistered hands reach for the fawn, a roadside memorial living in the open, dressed with yellow flowers and ribbons.
Sprouting beneath a crucifix, mushrooms smelling of bleach resemble lollipops, a cavity infecting the nerve in her tooth.
It’s too late to watch the boys swim in the river, their shirts clinging to their wet skin, their undeveloped muscles causing her to feel unsafe.
It's incredible, like all your work. X