"One Winter" by Aimée Keeble



I caught the morning as the thick white tail of a sea mammal. And cracked the ground with my soft feet stuffed-animal round and bright in my snowsuit. How shy the sound is without color to lay its head against, how like the busted wing of an angel the sky drooping, axillaries dimpled by fur trees. And the cold marbling beneath my hand as I’m sobbing and red. Her body had been untarnished, on its side as if breached from a milk sea. I had crunched close, snow falling as slow-motion rain, the drips hiding in her hide. No antlers, un-crowned this lady deer. Water caught aquiver on her eyelashes. Her eyes twin witch orbs. The only blight, her tongue, stray petal- love pink through the too human line of her teeth. I wanted to hold her ruminant jaw in my hands and guide her vulgar back inside, the thing that showed her lost of her soul. A dead mama, maybe, her baby in or out too hard to tell because I was young and deer are round. My hands, empty of flowers, all things for devotion buried beneath the blizzard. Already a silent wood, enough for a reverie. I, small and neon in the clearing and the sun waiting all in silver. I bent at the little knees beside her, like the times I bowed to the hard cream body of a saint sleeping in an alabaster dream. My mitten fist gathered crystals. The vinyl puffing in that way it does as I clapped over her body, delivering her snow as the first handful of dirt so the body can return to dust.




Aimée Keeble has her Master of Letters in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow and is represented by Ayla Zuraw-Friedland at the David Black Agency. Aimée lives in North Carolina with her dog Cowboy and is working on her first novel. She is the grand-niece of Beat writer and poet Alexander Trocchi.


Instagram: @aimeekeeble

Twitter: @AimeeKeeble

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