Home from the hospital nursery, your brother
wobbled and thrashed. First colt in the pasture.
I wondered how high he could leap, how
wild he’d toss his mane. I approached him
gingerly, wary of hooves and knobby knees,
warier still I’d jolt him. When you appeared,
my arms formed a crook, a hollow the depth
of your head. You were my fawn, yeasty,
and sweet. We’d always known each other,
even before your bud had opened. You’re
the girl my mother could have been. She roams
the woods with you, lives inside your stride,
its confident measure. I picture your brother
cantering in afternoon heat. He has shaken off
my faltering lead, grazes on clover, smooths
a path in alfalfa. I catch his eye, his soft nicker
in the distance. But you, my fawn, are the elegant
deer in the tangled forest of my memory—
my mother’s body, her phrasing and voice.
You prod among brambles; she squeezes
through gaps. Trunk and sprig of my limb
the pair of you merge, spin through time,
before, and after, ripple in my chest.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 3.
Annette Sisson’s poems can be found in Valparaiso Poetry Review, Birmingham Poetry Review, Rust and Moth, The Citron Review, The Lascaux Review, Third Wednesday, Glassworks, The Aeolian Harp Anthology, and others. Her book Small Fish in High Branches was published by Glass Lyre Press 5/22. Her poems have won or placed in many contests, including Frontier New Voices and The Fish Anthology, and several have been nominated for The Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. http://annettesisson.com
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