By Rebecca L. Morrison
A starchild, jailed, and forth has she
risen, alert, on the legs of a
groggy fawn, and confident, too.
Click, and clack, and creak; and like
clockwork, she knows – a certain separation from
doe and buck. And she remains lonely
in apocalyptic times, but she imagined the oil floating
separate from the water, and she is
well-oiled. She hits the bottom
of the glass and finds herself
as her parents
graze above her.