I grew antlers from my skull last evening, to see how they felt. / I shook my entangled hair from them, musing at the leaves in my branches, / when I heard the snapping of twigs. Quick as an arrow / I turned and saw him, not quite a man but a human fawn. In his eyes was a different kind of love, a humble / awe on his freckled face and perked ears. He asked for antlers, too, to make him full grown out of his smallness, / for the stirrings and shortcomings of Eros never visited him. I cursed him with a rare blessing, instead—to see me, know me, and live. To share in the moon's sole fullness / and be led to return. Only wanting the boy to remain as he was, / I did not account for an agony worse than childbirth, / how humans hunt down the blessed.
ABOUT ELLEN HUANG
Ellen Huang holds a BA in Writing and a minor in Theatre from Point Loma Nazarene University. She has taught children to read, write, and act from a new perspective. She has pieces published/forthcoming in over 25 venues, including Diverging Magazine, Thimble Lit, Tiny Spoon, Bleached Butterfly, Apparition Lit, briars lit, Gingerbread House, Madness Muse, HerStry, TL;DR Press, and South Broadway Ghost Society. She runs a blog of various creative work at: worrydollsandfloatinglights.wordpress.com
