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  Dance of the Deer

                     A dance of the deer,
                                   through a field of mustard seed
                                                     near the river, towards
a filigreed gate.
                                 And the music played
                    to a silent adagio
                                         where dahlias grew
with Mexican sunflowers
                                                               opened to landings
                of titmice and butterflies,
                                                                     easily perched on
leafy grace
                                  each petal’s face, covering
                                                            grass under a poppy sun.
                                       An entrance unchained,
       dance of the spirit;
                                                       to run with the doe
                                  who kept near the mother,
                                                                 who sprightly pranced
                                  on ballet-legs, who loped
    to a canter that mimicked
                                                  the heart, in its wildest beat,
in its wildest beat, where
                                      the body was light, the mind
                                                        winged free. A flight from
                                                            bones, an eruption of joy
   from a catacomb place
                                        where pipistrelles slept
and sadness bred, yet left
                                          that place
to sprint with the deer,
                           beyond the body,
                                        into a grove of trees.

Glossing Through

She liked to say things like balderdash,
lickity-split and collateral-damage
never knowing precisely what they meant

until she chugged three shots of bourbon
from her mother’s Baccarat tumbler
the morning Grandpa died─ in which case

it was all about bullshit, finding the toilet
quickly and avoiding the fallout,
before she puked on the living room

rug, since even death was no excuse
for such a display in a household
of perfect ladies, where ordinary

words of love were never spoken.


Copyright © 2009 Carol Lynn Grellas

Carol Lynn Grellas

Carol Lynn Grellas is a two-time Pushcart nominee and the author of two chapbooks: Litany of Finger Prayers, from Pudding House Press and Object of Desire newly released from Finishing Line Press.

She is widely published in magazines and online journals including most recently, The Centrifugal Eye, Oak Bend Review and deComp, with work upcoming in Breadcrumb Scabs, Past Simple  and Best of Boston Literary Magazine. She lives with her husband, five children and a little blind dog who sleeps in the bathtub.

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