Along our street, light fades early,
draining the houses of color.
In one, the bear man yawns,
his heartbeat slowing to match
the shorter days, gaze turned
inward, to his own darkness.
In another, the taxidermist's wife,
crying again near an open window.
In the basement, her husband
croons softly to the whitetail deer,
sings of the forest at dusk. Hush,
he says, stroking its flank in wonder.
I imagine his reflection in the still
glass eye, a scent of musk
in the room, how a body beneath
his fingers might stiffen, then yield.

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Antonia Clark

Antonia Clark works as a medical writer in Burlington, Vermont. She has taught creative writing in community college and adult education programs, and is currently co-administrator of an online poetry forum, The Waters. Recent poems have appeared in Bumbershoot, Lily, The Pedestal Magazine, Rattle, and Stirring.

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© 2007 Antonia Clark