The Deer
Granted, some beasts are quick.
But rounds were cheap as breaths
for him that night, and still the ropes
were coiled like laughing snakes.
I sewed his returning eyes to mine,
unstitched, busied myself again.
The pattern for a dress drew him –
acupunctured, its paper thin as sin
which crinkled as he looked.
The gas fire barked. I hushed.
I narrowed my thread to a fibre
and tucked it round his foot.
Luke Harrison is under twenty-two and lives in north London. He writes regularly at freedomnews.org.uk. His articles have featured on Contrainfo and Machorka.