To Be Nekumbra

Capture the fawns in silk-shining blankets,
woven tight of gossamer --
Cradle them in your long, long legs
dark and chitin-bound, coated in coarse fur
like the mane of a wild horse.

Dream for a moment of being their mother
of their eyes looking at you for an answer,
of living with them clinging to your smooth side,
unbroken by joints without bones.
Their faint strugles, the shaking of those pretty little legs --
they crash that fantasy open, shake down your masks --
and you can't wear their masks,
deer-masks, spell-masks, because they can't cover you up.


Sing them lullabyes and watch their eyelids droop
over succulent eyes. At last.
Pop them in your mouth like green grapes,
their juices running down your jaws like tears.

The key is this:
Hunt, and hunt, and never have it.
Eat, and eat, and never be full.