I never know what to do with my poetry. I’m really not a poet; I’m a novelist and occasional short story writer. Still, every so often I have to say something in very few words. I have to create an image stuck in my head and heart and other innards that is poking at me and needs release — and it’s something that definitely isn’t going to be a short story or novel. So, unlucky for you dear readers who happen here, *laughing*, I am going to occasionally post them here on Sundays. That way, they have a home and aren’t gathering mold and dust upon my computer. It just makes me feel better – as if I didn’t write them in a lonely vacuum and leave them homeless.
THE KILLING SPOT
The deer pauses
early morning fog twining ‘round a100-year-old oak
whose ancient branches weary to the ground,
reach, touch roots, leave a bit of deceptively soft Spanish moss
to trail along by the action of breezes
and she that is alone
lowers her snout to dew spattered grass, sips each blade
a delicate pull of her lips, teeth bite down, chew swallow and begin again.
Silence knows her.
He comes on quiet paw
watches her from behind a young swarm of knobby cypress knees—
the mother cypress towering near—steam sears from his heated body,
saliva slips from sharp points of teeth, his tongue protrudes,
slicks along his lips
she lifts her head
trembles, the ripples vaguely discernable across her small compact body,
nostrils flare, a tear of moisture drips and falls to the ground
as one tiny hoof lifts in preparation for flight—
—and he is upon her
snaps her neck, one swift calculated bite finds its way to her death,
she is consumed,
the rest left as pickings for the scavengers who are patient,
waiting for her fall
He saunters away belly distended
the good parts of her he uses for nourishment
the parts he has no need are disgorged upon the earth
Her bones are licked clean
Lay bleaching in the sun—
And he returns again and again to the killing spot, sniffs, wants more
of what she no longer has to give.