by David Hanlon
The Spice Girls
reached inside my bonsai body, rootward.
Viva Forever
and three Christmas number ones rippled inside.
Christmas—
my cut root, muffled
in tree lights and angels’ plastic halos.
I was nine. Then ten. Then eleven.
Lost as that deer in Times Square
in 2 Become 1,
frozen in the blur of headlights,
not moving
but continuing.
Years later
I learned the deer was a joke.
“Oh dear.”
Still it stood there
against the cityscape—
silent.
searching.
oh deer.
David Hanlon is a poet from Cardiff, Wales. His work has appeared in numerous journals and magazines, including Rust & Moth, Anthropocene, and trampset. His debut full-length collection, Dawn’s Incision, was published by Icefloe Press.
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