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by Antonia Clark

Along our street, light fades early,
draining the houses of color.
In one, the bear man yawns,
his heartbeat slowing to match
the shorter days, gaze turned
inward, to his own darkness.
In another, the taxidermist's wife,
crying again near an open window.
In the basement, her husband
croons softly to the whitetail deer,
sings of the forest at dusk. Hush,
he says, stroking its flank in wonder.
I imagine his reflection in the still
glass eye, a scent of musk
in the room, how a body beneath
his fingers might stiffen, then yield.

First appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry, Issue 6, June, 2007.  

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