Deer Mountain

Cradle of guitar strums, rib cages jutted like the fingers on strings, deep breaths inside hollowed trees, a remembrance of quiet deer, swift and magical – but the woman still dies. My mouth opening and closing, opening and closing, just I’m sorrys and nothings I can do to help. Fishes plop out of water, no hands to sooth their bulging eyes and gasping scales. Conversations around, finding words to not communicate; rather, to listen to the emptiness – but the woman still dies. A blue tint enters the forest and I can no longer just stare. Running through three feet snowbanks, spindly trees jut out from the ground like the plucking ribs in my chest. Broken beds lay on the dirt, I look up at the sky to gain breath – I feel like we could travel time if we just had more of it together. You felt a difference in my touch when we met again. My skin felt harder, my eyes drooped down. My smile remained the same but even I stiffened in your hands. A deer, too startled, that she can’t see a difference between humans anymore. Venus came into view over our heads, a dip of alien green in the milkiness of our lives. Craters in the moon, mocking mightily as your eyes betrayed sadness. You no longer could wait for the pearl to grow inside of my shell.