Doe
It’s been days of August and she lies there,
Broken, splayed, unmoving.
Matted fur close as kisses to yellowing bone,
Soft like wild grass.
The world reflects and refracts
In her black wide eyes.
Pretty pink tongue like a petal, an ankle,
Touches delicately to hot road,
Careless of the sizzling heat.
Each eyelash separates, flicks with
The wingbeats of the flies.
Her open belly is a work of art,
Finger-painted smears on her
Ripped canvas hide. She seems
Sometimes to be breathing gently
As thousands of pearly commas writhe
Inside her.
Her ears flicker no more, and yet still
They shape perfect cups of air,
Flower dishes in the sweet summer rain.
Broken, splayed, unmoving.
Matted fur close as kisses to yellowing bone,
Soft like wild grass.
The world reflects and refracts
In her black wide eyes.
Pretty pink tongue like a petal, an ankle,
Touches delicately to hot road,
Careless of the sizzling heat.
Each eyelash separates, flicks with
The wingbeats of the flies.
Her open belly is a work of art,
Finger-painted smears on her
Ripped canvas hide. She seems
Sometimes to be breathing gently
As thousands of pearly commas writhe
Inside her.
Her ears flicker no more, and yet still
They shape perfect cups of air,
Flower dishes in the sweet summer rain.