deer
the day golden once more and the pit
forming in my stomach has ceased to grow
I bury apple and potato skins in the garden
pray they turn into honey moose and oat deer
all soft noses and no scabs, smooth stomachs
I will unzip my coat at night time, I’ll sleep
amongst the hand-holds and split-lips, tan livers
trust the moose will carry me to my home
I slit an apple early in the day, thought of fingers
muscles, the memories they nurture forever
I continue to embrace the desire to live amongst
the mushrooms and the oysters, my sleeping bag
is a clear pond whose zipper is blue and when I leave
the pit of frogs they shrink into the size of dimes, plant
themselves on trees turned to fungal patches, I lack
autumn kindness, am stone, cruel stomach,
I give secrets to animals I will step away from night pain
once my plant mind has cleared, dear you, don’t expect
anything from me. The hums of the evening, owl songs,
clay mud for the pain I wish to become a bird lung or a
hair follicle on a racoon, I want smooth ivy for a heart,
want Sunday sun and want to unfurl my Lycoris radiata
in the stream, deer drinking from my arms and the trees
touch me, can’t remove the love, we’re all climbing inside
a swoop of moon, we heal in spiced moss beds and sticks and
hooves and rosehips.
I begin the day wondering if I am going to write about her
one could argue I have been in love this whole time
she’s in the blue salt metaphors
even though I can no longer write about her hands
too obvious, this is my way of remembering
how her hair looked like arctic supreme peaches
frost peaches, sometimes honey babe peaches
and snow beauty peaches, I had it bad, it was early
amber summer, she was gone before it began and I
tried to call her back to the orchard, I try to mend
myself with kindness, I miss wine, London broil
wrapped around a glaze, I miss skirt, I miss flank,
I miss ribeye I miss rich. I try to call her, but my words
coil back with heat, my crush is a boiling pot of soup,
a bite of cinnamon and sugar, I even swallow a button,
this isn’t about the needle of love, it’s how I would have
opened an oyster to be impressive, I’d pry open the jaws
of a golden-lion-lobster, I’d lie about liking my teeth, I’d
fold the day in half, like a navy candy cloud, it’s the way
she told me to heal, it’s sheets of ice rain melted into honey
jars, it’s a day I wake up and decide to write to her again.
It’s a Sunday when I wake up to her name on my phone,
warm laughter, a promise, and thunder encases the house
in blue light and sound but I don’t mind, I’m already
going to unlock the door.
forming in my stomach has ceased to grow
I bury apple and potato skins in the garden
pray they turn into honey moose and oat deer
all soft noses and no scabs, smooth stomachs
I will unzip my coat at night time, I’ll sleep
amongst the hand-holds and split-lips, tan livers
trust the moose will carry me to my home
I slit an apple early in the day, thought of fingers
muscles, the memories they nurture forever
I continue to embrace the desire to live amongst
the mushrooms and the oysters, my sleeping bag
is a clear pond whose zipper is blue and when I leave
the pit of frogs they shrink into the size of dimes, plant
themselves on trees turned to fungal patches, I lack
autumn kindness, am stone, cruel stomach,
I give secrets to animals I will step away from night pain
once my plant mind has cleared, dear you, don’t expect
anything from me. The hums of the evening, owl songs,
clay mud for the pain I wish to become a bird lung or a
hair follicle on a racoon, I want smooth ivy for a heart,
want Sunday sun and want to unfurl my Lycoris radiata
in the stream, deer drinking from my arms and the trees
touch me, can’t remove the love, we’re all climbing inside
a swoop of moon, we heal in spiced moss beds and sticks and
hooves and rosehips.
I begin the day wondering if I am going to write about her
one could argue I have been in love this whole time
she’s in the blue salt metaphors
even though I can no longer write about her hands
too obvious, this is my way of remembering
how her hair looked like arctic supreme peaches
frost peaches, sometimes honey babe peaches
and snow beauty peaches, I had it bad, it was early
amber summer, she was gone before it began and I
tried to call her back to the orchard, I try to mend
myself with kindness, I miss wine, London broil
wrapped around a glaze, I miss skirt, I miss flank,
I miss ribeye I miss rich. I try to call her, but my words
coil back with heat, my crush is a boiling pot of soup,
a bite of cinnamon and sugar, I even swallow a button,
this isn’t about the needle of love, it’s how I would have
opened an oyster to be impressive, I’d pry open the jaws
of a golden-lion-lobster, I’d lie about liking my teeth, I’d
fold the day in half, like a navy candy cloud, it’s the way
she told me to heal, it’s sheets of ice rain melted into honey
jars, it’s a day I wake up and decide to write to her again.
It’s a Sunday when I wake up to her name on my phone,
warm laughter, a promise, and thunder encases the house
in blue light and sound but I don’t mind, I’m already
going to unlock the door.
Sam Moe (she/her) is the first-place winner of Invisible City’s Blurred Genres contest in 2022, and the 2021 recipient of an Author Fellowship from Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing. She holds an MFA in creative writing from Converse College. Her work has appeared in The Hungry Ghost Project, Overheard Lit mag, Cypress Press, Gone Lawn, The Shore, Yuzu Press, and others.