Two dots look like pearls strung bright
on the hillside’s rusted thread.
Then, hovering over bones—
the grille a skeleton etched in black.
I have brought corn and soybeans
to the place where tar rips the forest in two—
for the deer whose hide drapes scantily
over his rib cage.
If deer could talk to people
and people could talk to deer,
I would ask him why he stands
stoic—waiting—
why he must become a freckled ghost,
white hologram projected like an oracle
before crossing.
Is something about the hot glare
blinding? Does he see more man than deer
now when he crooks his neck by the river?
It is rash to assume the car would swerve for him
if it ever got too close to spare them both.
Deer were never meant to be domesticated.
But I will come back tomorrow,
the vista’s ladle mimicking my palms,
a golden kernel cupped,
replenished—waiting—
licked up as a last resort
while his mind drives
and drives
in circles…
Deer were never meant to be domesticated.
Maybe humans weren’t
either.
Danae Younge is a 19-year-old writer whose work has appeared in over 20 publications internationally, including Salamander Magazine, Pulp Poets Press, Nonconformist Magazine, Palette Point, and The Curator. She was a national winner selected by The Live Poets Society of New Jersey in 2020. You can visit her website here.