Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (Issue 30, June 2013—Buch Märchen Issue)

In the forest my flashlight shines on a deer

sleeping inside a dark silvering thicket. Girl, I say. Apple, I say. Snow, I say, and then I say oh dear bewildered named thing. Proceeding in this way, holographic to holographic, I want to cut, center-left, a moon-just-so. Symbol of clearies. Or a handful of pearls.  Counters by which I study the mother, I reach into the petting window. Soon I know it is time to cut the red, red ribbon, I say roar-roar and deer startle, I clip-clip away. There are scenes, there are symbols, signifiers. I can turn off the oxygen but instead I just stand in the warm air whistling until it feels like floating fur.

Joni Wallace