How serious you are, hanging
herbs to dry. Before dawn, as if
thyme could shrink this grief
or pull another deer from your heart – back
from this war, before the next – I’m sorry
for last night. The way we spent it
on our knees, wringing milk
out of dish towels. Because I couldn’t keep
the carton or peace on the table, I’m sorry
for the way you strained your smile, and said
you were just tired. Which is code
for how sometimes you feel like a deer
nailed into a white man’s wall, and how
your eyes are filled with glass. And thank you
for teaching me your code. Even if we’re roadkill
it’s our road, after all. It’s your
reptilian elbows. You
whom I blame my life on.

Remi Seamon is a young poet who spends her time split between Cambridge, England, and Seattle, Washington. She received an honourable mention in the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award and her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Unlost Journal, Clementine Unbound, Rat’s Ass Review and streetcake, among others. She considers her greatest inspiration to be her dog.

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