The ghost of the Angel County doe has been living inside of me.
Her ripped skirt and lacerated skin rests upon grassy plains.
She’s dead yet her soul wanders across the fjords of the land of the lost.
She bores into my eyes as my gaze consumes her mangled corpse.
I look into her glossy eyes, where are their lights?
Her soul and throat ripped open just like the sidewalk cracks outside my home, I wish to fill them with dandelions.
I’ll never forget her face.
Though no one has claimed her, nor has she a place,
I don’t know her name or age, but she’s an angel to me.
Patrol cars line the streets of our sleepy town,
looking for any signs of her wing’s roots or her divinity.
No one knows her, not even the fate that bestows her.