The Wounded

There was nothing but the hunt,
the pain, the struggle, the dark.
She had to keep running. Run!
She could barely recall a time
before the breaking of branches.
She could barely recall her time
of being human, of skin
touching skin and naked picnics
when she gazed boldly at the sun.
In her upright days moss and wild
flowers sprang from her every
footstep, birds sang her every word.

Now she ran on all fours. Run, run!
Her cloven hooves were raw, spiked
by thorns. She was pierced by nine
arrows, fur rank with pus. Venomous.
Calculating. The forest was silent,
a lifeless zodiac of roots and branches.
She could no longer recall her name
or why she had to run. Her lungs failed
and she fell in the shadow of a crippled
tree. As she waited for her joyful exit,
forked lightning unravelled silver
threads of hope across the night sky.

 

Note:- this is an ekphrastic poem based on Frida Kahlo’s painting shown below.

 

CE02F370-1E19-4BC9-BCDE-CC7A0A145EA6
The Wounded Deer painting by Frida Kahlo

7 thoughts on “The Wounded

    1. Glad you enjoyed my poem Steve. You may be right. Perhaps humans are the only species who are conscious of history and aware of the future. That makes our lives complex and painful. Animals, as far as we know live more in the present moment.

      Liked by 1 person

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