Poetry
Dappled Death
Adrian McCorkle
issue seven
To the fawn
with the bent neck
on the side of the road:
how many days
since you first learned
to walk?
Did you falter
because the teeth of the asphalt
tore into your soft hooves,
born into this world
expecting the kindness of grass?
Was it the fluorescent eyes of the beast
or its deadly roar
that froze you in place,
or were you just not fast
enough?
Was the driver speeding
or swept under the current
of a whiskey-filled night?
Did they think more of you
than just an
obstacle
that bent their fender
with your soft, spindly body?
Are you less lonely,
in your cradle of Queen Anne’s lace
and cattails,
the maggots and flies
making you into a home?
Are you even there at all?
Or are you still yearning for your mother,
her comfortable warmth, as she
springs away
from the sound of your bones on pavement,
mournful cries echoing
through the soft black night?
About the Author
Adrian McCorkle (they/them) is a queer writer that hails from the forests of Washington. When they aren’t writing or studying, they can be found gardening, rock climbing, painting, or reading with their four cats. Their work can also be found in Jeopardy Magazine.
Leave a Reply