Anne Rundle
Snow melts
under the weight of today’s rains
and I run away fast.
(A deer wading through a riverbed
leaves no prints.)
Puddles of mud hide my footsteps.
The river we live near pours over the banks.
I keep running, find myself within the raspberry thicket,
the deer’s favorite spot.
Behind me, your flashlight scans the backyard,
I hide as still as a marble statue.
I was never fine.
I am leaving. I won’t be back.
You keep pursuing, call out loudly,
as if you never hunted in silence and killed
the creatures we ate for dinner.
Children don’t understand what venison is,
they just eat until they are full.
and I run away fast.
(A deer wading through a riverbed
leaves no prints.)
Puddles of mud hide my footsteps.
The river we live near pours over the banks.
I keep running, find myself within the raspberry thicket,
the deer’s favorite spot.
Behind me, your flashlight scans the backyard,
I hide as still as a marble statue.
I was never fine.
I am leaving. I won’t be back.
You keep pursuing, call out loudly,
as if you never hunted in silence and killed
the creatures we ate for dinner.
Children don’t understand what venison is,
they just eat until they are full.
Biography
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Anne Rundle’s poetry has appeared in Coffin Bell Journal, Artful Dodge, and Common Threads. She has a Master of Fine Arts from Ashland University and a bachelor’s degree in English from Allegheny College. She taught high school English for seven years, but now works for a local community college. Her poem “Now the Teacher Becomes the Student” won the 2017 Ides of March contest. Anne resides in Westerville, Ohio. Follow her on Twitter: @writerundle.
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