It was hot out. The spine a quiver.

I did not know what it was storing,

only that the deer I passed looked afraid.

They shouldn't have, though, I stored

the arrows in my back and I couldn’t keep up

anyway. Their eyes were soft. They ran—

I want to pull the arrows out of my spine

until they lose their bite. I want to strip

the wood until it grows back into trees,

into leaves, into something the deer

can live off of. Hunt yourself

and you can never go hungry. There’s nothing

to be afraid of losing.

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