Letter
To the deer beneath the ice
You, did you ever live like a wolf? Were you ever late to the hunt because you could afford it, laugh through winter without conciliation? Time settles differently on predator and prey. We cannot all be gradual and luxurious. Some of us flee examination because the future is already here, no one to intervene; in another life joy is probable. But now you wear the pause like a cloak. Now fleeing no longer, fleeting no longer: your ribs holding stillness like peace. Once my father gave me a knife and taught me how to turn it inwards, or perhaps he gave me something else and I learned to make it a weapon. I can’t remember. You, do you remember how his teeth sank into the sponge of your neck? How in that moment you were relieved and singular — after such offhanded inevitability there was nothing else to do. And you slipped free. You staggered on your hands and knees to the edge of the water, trembling like an addict; dipped your head in desperation. And it was merciful enough to take you. I know what it’s like to baptise yourself, to die so you can live. Now rest. Know this. I love your crisping fur and the soft curve of your ribboned neck, your front leg crooked in benediction, all your memory — and your cloud-lashed eye, looking up at me.
Lisabelle Tay is the author of Pilgrim (The Emma Press, 2021). She writes poetry, fiction, and screenplays. Her work appears in Bad Lilies, Sine Theta Magazine, and elsewhere, and she was part of the 2023 Black List Feature Lab.