L.I. Henley and Kristin Bock

Hare

What I want is more darkness, more shelter, to wear rough grass like a suit. Over a bright heaven I choose lowlands, the open field sloped toward nothing. The blue glossed hill of a raven’s back. More than stars I want lapwings, long winters, the crops that follow seasons. To turn inward. To see the skulls stacked on hanging scales. To read the world’s entrails—decipher, regard, tell. Because I have seen foxes carry birds, silent and dazed, by their heads. Bluebells crushed under boots. Ripped lace on the stony path. Girls taken from their beds. Boys shot through like rusted tin. Because I have seen the body’s curved leap caught in the teeth of hounds.

Deer and Rifle

DEER: At the creek, the hunter doesn’t see me. If I were a snake or a steel-jawed trap, I’d be his fate. 

RIFLE: I’d be his crutch.

DEER: The girl’s red hair braided into fishtails, her swimsuit tossed like a spare organ, red and wet. He’s trailed her here. What part of the story do you write? 

RIFLE: The hunter’s part. He watches to protect her. I’m sure of it.

DEER: Once, I made the mistake of walking freely in the orchard, got drunk on black plums split on the damp earth. Once, I jumped a wall to feast on almonds. Everywhere boundaries, everywhere fruit. Should the girl have stayed at home?

RIFLE: She would not. 

DEER: The crows spark the June sky like pieces of flint, the hare breaks into a run. Does she see him when she stands from shallow water?

RIFLE: She doesn’t hide. The sun warms her breasts, lights up her copper triangle like a target. 

DEER: The hunter holds the world in his scope, everything small and unaware. 

RIFLE: Hearts beat in his crosshairs. 

DEER: How does it feel to be his eye? 

RIFLE: Terrible and beautiful—like an angel approaching from behind.

DEER: He wants my head on his wall, my pelt on his bed, to wear my rack like a velvet crown. Is love possession? 

RIFLE: To be chosen is to be loved. 

DEER: He’s no protector, no bearded angel. 

RIFLE: I admit, I’ve seen him skin a hare mid-cry.

Deer

Stepping into the red
field of poppies 

you trail my line 
of heat

I could run but I don’t 

We dance like the girl 
and boy in the grass 

sticky 
stamens of dogwood 

a hard rain undressing 
cornstalks

all those fat kernels 
aching to pop—

my meaty heart 
in your hands 

Back to Issue IX…