Heaving, the Air (I), by Kevin O'Rourke (forthcoming in issue 19)

Struck, on its side, I imagine an image of the deer laying, its breath coming sharp & hot and making a cerise mist of the air: when your mother saw the deer, as her car passed, slowly, she burst suddenly into tears.




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I fall forward and catch myself on my hands; the snow works its way wetly through the holes in my gloves. I know this chill by the cold wet working its way through the holes in my gloves, and am thankful for the reminder so thank




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you standing as a statue of you, classical, your dress’s shoulder straps sliding down your shoulders, the deer’s very red blood on the dark snow on the side of the road’s shoulder there, there’s so much ice, many spinning tires, yarns:




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as it was only told to me as such I can too be present, my handkerchief at the ready, these inches of ice below my feet someone’s small fire flickering off in the distance which reminds me to, to, tragedies happen, fear happens, but also living too, too,