Jump


By Mary Haidri

the doe doesn’t know she’s dying
hindquarters slip in the mud         
fingers shake over the damp flank   
not quite touching     flinch     rain   
drips down my neck     in the      
second before she jumped I turned   
my head in the truck and saw her
running along the passenger side
this is what I saw:    her fawn-fear
of cars     two beams cutting
through the watery dark     her
sister’s dappled pelt     ribs heaving
under two hands      the hollow in
the grass where she knelt to sleep
every night      her skull against the
windshield      I saw the thing that
lives between my mother and I   
tender and bleeding      my body
wrapped in blankets       teeth
scattered across moss      like pearls
      hospital beds       old blood
turning black      ultrasound probes
          dark eyes telling me how the
body betrays without          warning        
without               wanting  


Mary Haidri is a writer living in Portland, Oregon. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Portland Review, Nightingale Magazine, and Fairy Tale Review. She is the author of the play Every Path (La Jolla Playhouse & Moxie Theatre).

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