Technically, they are ungulates—
tender in-between the split hoof.
Their insides are torn
into chambers. Things grown
and digested in the dark.
Ever seen a deer eat a baby bird?
Feathers and all. They hunt
them down and strike
with hooves.
There’s a natural order: Ungulate.
Ruminant. Cervid. Antlers
are just vascular velvet
that swells, turns mineral,
dies. Deer don’t have to
break them off each year,
but you’d be surprised
how many creatures
choose desire.
We’ve done experiments
to stop deer from throwing their bodies
in front of cars. Do they really?
We lined the road with lights
to warn them. And it worked?
When it didn’t, we covered them
with white sheets. The deer? The sheets
kept the deer away. Some strange
accident. You know, water deer
have fangs instead of antlers.
Even the women. But do they really
kill? It’s all an art, this mounting
on the wall. Counting
our own small sins grown
in the dark. Like I said,
the deer threw their bodies
in front of me. Life
is no longer based on ability
to live outside the womb.
Life is now an object
of state protection. We track deer
according to the rose petal theory,
which means daughters
follow their mothers
in pink furrows, unfolding
in ways that can be violent. Homicide
begins with the heartbeat,
but do the mothers really kill
themselves? Let me ask
what you think of your own
thicket. How it holds the meadow
closed. Hides the precious
and dappled. There’s a natural order.
Undulate. Cervix. I told you
we’re more interested in wolves—
Freud was onto something
when he compared the deer stand
to a womb. A quiet muzzle pointed
from the inside out.
This poem references the Georgia House Bill 48, also known as the “Heartbeat
Bill,” which was passed in the US state of Georgia’s General Assembly in 2019.
This bill made abortion illegal after six weeks of pregnancy, except in cases of
emergency, rape, or incest, which were made illegal after twenty weeks.
From The Malahat Review's spring issue #222