Buck Moon

My antlers came in. The half

way point of the summer reeks

of botched casseroles. I saw an

artichoke fully blooming. Pain

bored a hole in my forehead &

luckily something came out. I

cannot afford to hunker. Eating

everything in sight, I shed my

only velvet. It's been a year, but

I didn't spar enough to make a

difference. I liked the soft pedicles

even if they weren't going to get

me anywhere. In the garden, I can

smell the woman and her pungent

kitchen. Next year I'll leave antlers

in the oak forest for the rabbits to

gnaw. Her garden will be gone.

Not all of us are made for this

life; eating flowers before they

even jackpot, perfecting the rut.

Originally from Washington, DC, Maura Way is a schoolteacher in North Carolina. Her work has appeared in Porridge, Verse, Hotel Amerika, Beloit Poetry, and The Chattahoochee Review. Her debut collection ANOTHER BUNGALOW was released by Press 53 in 2017.