The Deer Woman

In the corner a remnant
of a vision pulled up
in half-sleep, pulled from
memories of an old man telling
a story near a communal fire. 

In the corner, 
a blistered sack of a human-like
thing with hooves and a black hood
covering its face. I fell asleep
thinking of the past and

an old man telling a campfire story
and now this looks like it was
pulled from that fire, but not fast enough.
It has deer-feet. It has a black hood
and I think now it is a woman

and I think in half-sleep that makes
perfect, drowsy sense. I don’t know
if I should speak to Her but when I try
the voice of an old man telling
a fireside story comes out of my mouth
using words I understand but do not 

recognize. I am
aroused enough to know 
She must know this.

This vision is now
floating toward me. I’m still 
half-asleep and half old man
by the fire when 

She comes close. I feel Her
grass-fed, smoke-blister breath.
The old man council fire story
upon my neck now.
The hooves dangling.
Her name on the tip
of someone else’s tongue
in a language I don’t recognize

but which I understand too late,
just before I fully wake; awake
forty years too late to tend
the fire.


About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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