A deer freezes in the bright of candle light,
mistaking it for a headlight. Flash those doe eyes
that will one day become marble, walk on hooves
that are yours today (as a keychain somewhere
salivates at the mouth, waiting to hang them),
take naps on car hoods that howl laughter
at deer crossing signs. But start running, little doe,
your dad’s antlers can’t save you forever. One day,
they will hang in the house whose grass you’ve grazed
your entire life.
A moth mistakes light for a savior, a lifesaver,
rushes in to catch flame, erratic behavior. Burns in the air,
surrounded by water vapor that will not help.
But do you remember those nights in the basement—
no lights, only fire between you and I—when we ate
each other’s clothes alive? I clipped your wing
that night. I don’t think you ever forgave me.
You wanted a brighter fire, longing for the savior
I could never be.
Be careful little bunny, grab carrot root for loot
but don’t mistake it for mean man’s boot. Rely on luck
from your foot, even though it will one day be chopped off
and sold as if it never belonged to you (how lucky
can it be?) Flaunt fur and kiss strangers, have babies
because you’re afraid of being alone. Bite my lip, peel it open
and fill it with bunny teeth so I can understand all of the words
you are too afraid to say.
