THE WORLD

Photo by Liza Rose

i don’t want to write about the end. today, 
instead, i’ll write about the fawn, this fawn,
sunspots feigning light streaming through
filtering leaves as he lies still, 
invisible to preying eyes, fresh body 
curled against granite carved with a name 
—MOSS. growing 
up, my grandfather hid among trees. deer were
hung by hind legs, sliced open, dried, cured. i never
tried it—venison—only turned the word 
around on my hungry tongue. only watched 
the deer come in, their slow approach to eat 
half-rotted apples. only spotted them 
by flashlight in the field. i know this 
does not make me a better human. 
if he had sharper teeth, this small creature, i’m sure
he would devour me, my borrowed stardust 
melting into his. what i mean to say is, i am 
no threat to you, new life. not an immediate one, at least.
i exist in this moment with you, mid-July, the hottest
in history. soon it will be the end of this scorching summer,
August, fall, hunting season, and you will grow velvet,
shed, mate, be eaten—
by man or bear or wolf or sun or world—
and i will be here, as i am now, writing the end. 
but today, we are alive and breathing 
the same air, floating 
on the same rock in an infinite pond of 
nothingness. i too see my face reflected 
on the surface. i too am startled and uncertain. 
dear fawn, you mean something. you do 
not need to say it back. just tell me that, one day, i will
take my children by hand and flashlight to moonlit fields,
white moths like ash rising up in the crisp cool air, and see
your children’s eyes reflect back small stars, entire green worlds.