A Fawn Has No Scent
And so, like a deer mother, my parents left me curled up
on the doorsteps, in the flowerbeds, in the rumpus rooms
of others—those with fathers who worked 9-5,
and stay-at-home mothers who boiled hot dogs, fried bologna
for lunch. I stayed quiet, asleep inside my abandonment.
My mother went off to feed, to lure away danger, her scent
so strong. I wore her like an invisibility cloak. I was nothing
like a horse, a colt who could get on my feet. I was safe
without human interference.
Betsy Mars is a prize-winning poet, a photographer, and publishes an occasional anthology through Kingly Street Press. She is an assistant editor at Gyroscope Review. Poetry publications include Rise Up Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, New Verse News, Sky Island, and Minyan. She is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee. Betsy’s photos have been featured in RATTLE’s Ekphrastic Challenge, Spank the Carp, Praxis, and Redheaded Stepchild. She is the author of Alinea and co-author of In the Muddle of the Night with Alan Walowitz.