Hiking
Jean-Luc Fontaine


 
                         In critter-heavy trails,
I hike with my brother--
             red clay dust coughing upwards,
                          fur-bare rabbits scrambling
             towards their swales

Past the clearing,
            a deer dragging a smaller deer,
their horns locked--
                        antlers
            a calculus of bone.
 
                        In the rut,
my brother tells me,
             the deer duel over food 
                          and sometimes catch their horns.
 
                        My mind
                                    scurries back
to those moss-green evenings
            trading fists
                         like tusk-blows
                                      with my brother.
 
                         Food stamps finished for the month.
             Him and his stash
of Tootsie Rolls hidden
                        in the sleeve of his pillow.
            Our bodies a mess
of limbs on the floor as I try
                       
                                      to reach a hand
deep into his dandruff-colored pillowcase.
 
                                    Often times,
            my body bruised—curled
                          like a comma as I cried
                                                    on the floor.
 
After five muddy miles
            we turn around and slog back down
   the rocky hillside,               
                                       and soon we spot
             the old imprint of our boots,
                         the dust-streaked rocks,
 
             the clearing and the two deer
                                        bronzed and shiny,
laying still
              in the microwaved horizon.
 
But this time, we approach.
            The deer still warm,
                                      their breathing gentle--
            bodies sweatered in flies— 
 
so we struggle their horns apart,
                           careful of the scrape
             of bone on bone.
                           And then we back away.
 
            At first, no sounds, but then,
                                                the unsteady rising,
the sound of teeth chewing grass
                                                 by our feet.
 









​

About the Author: Jean-Luc teaches the arts at a elementary school in the Bronx. Before teaching, he worked a number of odd jobs which include mosquito repellent salesman, ice cream scooper, dishwasher,
janitor, and cheese monger. He enjoys long naps on short train rides and drinking too much
coffee. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Apalachee Review,
Dialogist, Spillway, Stoneboat, and elsewhere.

---