Hiding for deer.

Hiding for deer.

I hide in pages. I turn back to look

for the stalking deer, chestnut 

furs of flank alert to

flaming arrows, I pace

expectantly at first, then numbly

by the wayside, I faint.

Waking, I crawl home, onto

the chest of my bed, hard

truths lying down beside me. I feel

my knees crack against them, belly

slack with long hungering these 

winter months, while the forest  

thickens, and I hoard grief

at the windows, waiting

for my strength, waiting

for the deer

to be startled 

into being. I fear them

into being, and we dance for one another, 

we court the flint of meeting, 

though we’ve never met. Deserted

house I have taken, deserting 

creatures I have seen, after all

I have seen, I still hunt 

with a stick, count the days

in the mud - rake a hand 

like a breeze through her fur - 

before waking again

to the crows

hawking up night silences;

I fly out on the caw, first flight

into morning shadow, I hide.