The Deer

I know the brain—or part of it—controls the heart.
She died because the tumor reached that part.

For a time, I was her heart, unregulated,
dead. In the next lane,


in the truck’s bed, resting where, on slower roads,
a dog’s might—the dead deer’s head. Like an awful joke.
Want to read more?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.