Broken - Ben Mitchell

This world has no mercy

for the things it has broken. Like

that yearling with its two

front legs snapped, remember? How

she kept trying to raise herself

to her full height, her bullion fur,

its wisps of white, caked

in mud, each time she drove herself,

plunging back into the earth. And perhaps

I am right to gather the covers

tightly around myself, to polish my armor. Scour

and buff it into a golden

shine, so all you can see is your own reflection. We

are grateful to see ourselves,

reflected, the illusion we

are safe, but still

I remember that yearling, bleating

in the forest, the sound of it, I

lay my palm on her torso, her shallow breath

and tiny heartbeat, holding her

to this fragile earth. Eyelids falling

in one long out breath, she

craned up her neck, lifting her face

to the vast cathedral of the birch trees,

emerald leaves illuminated

by the sun, falling in the west.