My daughter’s new pet is half deer, half fox.
They tumble over each other, racing through the valley,
their rhythm imperfect, she is human after all.
Half human, half something I can’t quite recall,
I don’t know him well, his fur is soft and smooth.
Little antlers, tiny twigs on his brow.
Hoofs like black pinpricks, needles through fabric.
At night he howls at nothing, he doesn’t quite know why.
His fur is soft and smooth ,
morning snow, untrampled, unbothered.
Black spots speckled by the bane of his tail,
an old scar from something he can’t quite recall.
I don’t know him very well.
He runs an endless trail past the river with my daughter,
in two step tandem, they’ve learned to act as one.
Half human, half deerfox, half nothing at all.
He looks at me, sometimes, with ink black misty eyes.
He licks my hand, leans his head on my palm,
as if the weight of the world is held
by the little twigs on his brow.
I am so far away from home, he says.
I will never see my mother again.
She is so far away, I am here.
I am all that there is, , anywhere, of me.
You understand me, he says.
We’re the same, brothers.
Half deer, half fox.
Half human, half something you can’t quite recall.
We walk in two step tandem,
Two parallel lines that touch without knowing.
We have never met.
We have known each other our whole lives.
We’re the same, like brothers, he says.
You understand , he says,
and I don’t know why
but I do.
I can’t recall.
The ' something I’m missing.
The bridge between me,
and all that there is.
I am all I can’t recall.
I am the tear left unstitched.
Half human,
half nothing, nothing at all.
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