Poetry by Lauren Davis

                 Sjoerd Los CC



​What I Am
 
 
Driving to the supermarket, I nearly hit 
a deer in the road. On the sidewalk stands 
a small girl wearing pink, twirling an umbrella. 
 
The deer turns and flees. The girl witnesses 
no violence. My relief is for her, and her alone. 
I know what this says about me.
 
Little doe, I am not sure how I became
this thing that I am. I could seek 
amends, but I will not change.
 
Little girl, you will not think of me, if you ever 
thought of me at all. Years, and I have not worn color. 
Tomorrow, I will step into the red dress.




Two Decades After the Flood the Doctors Still Don’t Know What is Wrong with My Brother’s Body


A pinprick of black--
he tells me he will never get
back that sliver of sight.

The thing is slow erosion.
Motor skills, it takes.
Swells the tongue. 

What to call a ghost
of the body. Do you name
it, like a pet?

Unspecified in water, 
in my brother wading. 
One day maybe I will forgive 

everything, but for now.

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Lauren Davis is the author of Each Wild Thing’s Consent (Poetry Wolf Press). She holds an MFA from the Bennington Writing Seminars, and her poetry, essays, stories, and fairy tales can be found in publications such as Prairie Schooner, Automata Review, Hobart, and Ninth Letter. Davis teaches at The Writers’ Workshoppe in Port Townsend, Washington.
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