1583 c/o Brian Oliu


At the top of the hill were deer that blinked more than others—they ate apples with vigor, they tasted windfall. These fruits will make you younger, they said: there is something in the water. In the spring in the spring we let our legs dangle, let our feet paw at the water as if testing glass—to scrape something from the top, to take the water with us somehow, to blink more, to taste more. We came here to stay young, our days of our parents dropping us off at the entrance over—we have our own mode of transportation—we have our own way of getting into the park. We do not need our fathers to swing the mallet that launches the frog that wins the prize. We know about timing, about stiff rims, about strength. We are not scared of the pirate ship, the twists in the dark, being upside down. We tease those who are in hopes they will hit us on the arm so we can grab them, pick them up, hold them like a stuffed bear. On the way home, our car hits a deer. We check to see if everyone is all right, not letting anyone know we are scared. As we circle the vehicle we think of our mothers, our fathers. The deer looks up at us like a cooked fish.