Penny Wei

Where the Deer Dies

Deer, grow an antler as inverted lightning &

salacity of breath—- forgive me, each tine a

corridor where the wind forgets its name.

I dream to tangle them as telephone wires,

long-distance calls between god and the static.

Death in slow-motion, or is something moving

between my ribs? A moth, a bullet, a bad

translation of hunger as oak forgetting its wrath.

Punctuationless, you step into a clearing where shadow peels.

Who is but a hoof suspended midair? A fender, a god

with bad aim. I step into the headlights and feel them

pass through me, stringing eye-veins as constellations.

I see too much, I see nothing— the sky folds into a single wet blink:

I am waiting for impact to call this moment real.

Tell me who’s hands hold the moon in their throat

& cup my eyes as coins. My reflection sharpens

inside your eclipse. Your hooves leave commas in dirt

between the sound of something deciding whether

to stay or run.

Penny Wei is a bilingual poet from Shanghai and Massachusetts. Her works are up or forthcoming on Eunoia Review, Aloka, Winged Penny and Fleeting Daze, amongst others.