A Parcel of Deer

Iris A. Law

Someone delivered them

to my doorstep, the box

tucked up in thick brown paper

and blunted at the corners. I could hear

their tiny hooves clattering inside,

staccatoing the soft walls

of their cardboard cage.

When I slit through the tape,

the smell of their fear curled

into the room. Green-black irises

flashed up at me — dark, glass

bullets tracking the rift in the roof,

the enormous, fleshy moon that now

hung above it, emitting sounds

that tumbled clumsily from between

stained teeth. Hush, hush,

it kept on saying, yellow jaws

waxing. Please, don’t be afraid.


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