my deer

There is an island peninsula north of Clearmount, south of Gaston where the deer beat men.
Looks normal, like any other deer you'd see in the woods.

Gently prodding you with its antlers
It forces you to turn around
Nothing behind you, nothing
No wounds, nothing


the road is
too long


You make your way back home and stumble into bed.


How dare you sleep?
The antlers are such interesting conversationalists
they know so much about money and fashion and sports
about music and love and sex and politics and war and art and food and literature and mechanics and history and psychology and people and animals and cars and culture and science and fun but they don't want to talk to you
You beg them to speak but they go away
they don't like you anymore
you did something wrong
They want you to want them to come back
you don't
You hope it never comes back
but you know, you know

Weeks go by, months, years.
I start to forget.
I start to believe this happened to someone else.


There is an island north of Clearmount, south of Gaston where the deer beat men.
I have not seen it since
But I know this now
My deer is coming

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