deer shed spring antlers in clumps of sticky velvet, tease fallen flesh like deadnames on their tongues. you shiver at each thick swallow, clotted memories slithering their red way back to bone, and this still air aches with the promise of shatter. once, in the quiet shell of our sheets, we wove dreams of flight, former girl -boyhoods forever left beneath the city’s gun-dark tar. once, we barreled down backroads at dawn like something hunted. our throats howled past mile markers, mistaking anonymity for rebirth, satisfied only once trees absorbed all echo. now, our stories remain slick with present-tense,
all memory new heresy. bucks lick their teeth sickening pink: summer selves filling their simple bellies warm.
Fox Auslander is a non-binary poet based in Southwest Philadelphia. They are a volunteer at Alien Magazine and The Chestnut Review, a temporary shut-in, and probably happy. Find their recent work in Daily Drunk Mag, forthcoming in GLITCHWORDS and Collective Realms, and on Twitter @circumgender.