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.