Daphne Deer

Oh, Father,
you possessed me
to turn tree for
my arrival at
the Age of Survival.
Once again,
the Lost Acre,
the Final Verve.
At least the tree
Sucks on rock sap.
Skinny limbed, dry skinned.
But living.

Then the wind blew
and all I could do was stand
there, like a tree.
I swallowed a seed,
swindled by my own Mother
to make.
Cavity, knot, womb
Stuffed with sapling surplus.
To bear is cruel here.
Kinder to exterminate.

Look at that woman-relic.
She ate so much veal,
all that was left, and
became a she-deer.

Daphne Deer

Ravenous, starved,
Scratching at lichen
which clings to rock,
desperate, green.

Poor, sweet sprout,
Disappear
before it’s too late.