Understory, and: Deer in Winter
In the poem, "deer in winter," the speaker is burdened by the triage of self, other, and landscape during a time of emotional misunderstanding.
In the poem, "understory," the speaker navigates desire and intimacy despite the past's irreparable trauma.
river, loss, abstraction, childhood, forest, miniatures, femininity, honesty
UNDERSTORY
when you lift your toe,the fabric falls, folds.the ropes dance.
your hair drags alongthe forest floorand my comb follows.
tonight, we're lost at sea,hidden in plain sight.let's not worry
our wishes into birds orclose off a corner of the room.let's have a thicker line,
a vivid hour, somethingto mistake for weatherin our delicate climb.
shake, and the glassthat contains me shakes too.shake, and my roots tighten,
turn back the layers.warn your small animals,clever queen, hand me
a soft black moon. we'llbow in from the norththis time of year, the rain
freezing our socks. formlessfrom hunger, early to rise,we'll decide who we are. [End Page 3]
I know not to run fromthe enemy. more than love,it's beauty that forgets me.
like the phoenix cuffedmidflight, don't besomething that lasts.
be a house withoutkeys. a childhoodof broken things. [End Page 4]
DEER IN WINTER
this is when we grow apart. when the river is clear enough to bank on.when the elk begin to cross, and then the sheep.
see the seeds stuck to their coats? see the blue doors wavering in the reeds?I want to ask why. I want to put a piece
of paper over the sky I divided into roads, as if it could keep you from the milkynimbus of my mother's backyard
where it is always cold. here, she will tell you to keep the flowers from your mouth.rely instead on what can crack a body's side.
sounds like laughter, softly knocking knees maybe. small circle of bees. as if a five-pointed starwere to collapse this very night, where no one
and nothing survives. which is just a trick of the light. it is your mind, moving waterover and under the hills we'll never see.
my fate is to linger in the lush whispers of those walls, blown over and overthe drainpipe's cry. so if the surface is mappable,
I will tell you. about my rib cage, her chair, or why your throat twitches in the night—those bodies of water you draw on the door. [End Page 5]
Augusta Funk is a writer from the Midwest. Her poetry has appeared in Best New Poets, the Massachusetts Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, and elsewhere, and she has received fellowships from the Vermont Studio Center. She lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where she received her mfa at the University of Michigan.
