Can’t bring my hands near to the glassy eyed doe. Two dead ones in the day, downy tufts of fur blanketing the trail 10 feet from the carcass. Step onto the nest, a soft white belly. Something motherly and soporific. The sky pinkens; rain pools in the hollow made by the uprooted oak. A new born fawn is bubble gum stuck to the pearly ribcage. A man scavenges beside me for new centaur parts, snaps off the hooves.
At night I hear rustling made by the silver hands of the maiden that I’ve cut out from old biology text books and newspapers. She appears by my bed side, wan and pale visage frozen as I’ve fated it, and casts long shadows against the wall.