Shantih Journal | Page 53

Compulsion

Liz Lampman

Here, another crossing. The fawn that enters

has no fear. I have no word for the kind of want

that is shaped like dread. Her ears swivel the sky

into thin ropes. Watch her weave the world, a brief

kingdom. With time, she will swell and the white spots

spill to night’s thick grass. Someday, Andrew's leap

over the fence to steal from the wood pile pine for the fire

will recede beyond memory. His ink eyes will become

a carcass, then ash. Someday I will be proud and forgetful.

Marble is really limestone melting back into the sea.

Next spring, I will become the yearling, my steps not yet

deliberate. Dread amidst the tangy clover. Danger

shaped like an empty meadow. Like the blade of his spine

when I held him against my hollow chest.