A poem thinking of orpheus
I witness a hunting man
and his daughters discover
a fawn, leg-wrapped in the bushy shade
of a still-leafing tree. Submissive and kind
it only tips its ears—they tremble flatly
back as when, newborn, it streaked
first circles around its mother
in the waving grass, soaking wet
from birth and dew. Here,
the fawn begins to call at the people,
a throat-noise like an engine failing
to turn. The hunting man gathers
the fawn in his arms, securing
the legs and knees, the warm body
pressing to his woolen layer.
One child strokes the fawn’s markings—
wild, white with joy—
and then the man slits its throat.
He cuts from its ribs through its gut,
scrapes its acrid soup-stringed hot tripes,
and scuffs ground-rot on them. By its legs
he swings the fawn home, the children
just behind him, following.