The Fawn Prince

by Megan Arkenberg

He drifts
into the sunlight
like a falling leaf.
             His hair is ruddy,
the color of autumn,
and smells sweetly of moss.

             Don't move;
it would not do to startle him.

His eyes watch you.
They are black and bottomless,
as faraway as the sky.

You see your reflection in those eyes,
your face as pale and deep
as the drowned.

You are close, close enough
to feel the heat of his breath.
Raise your hand, bow your head
and you could be as close
as lovers.

He starts, seeing something in your eyes
like the glint of iron
like the yellow gaze of a wolf.
You cannot move and he is gone, vanished
in a blur like autumn rain.

Don't move; listen.
A wolf howls
in the pit of your belly.

Your heart beats
with the clatter of hooves
on stone.

Megan Arkenberg is a student in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Her poetry has appeared in Dreams & Nightmares, Expanded Horizons, Star*Line, Polu Texni and a whole bunch of other cool places. She edits the fantasy e-zine Mirror Dance and the historical fiction e-zine Lacuna. Her favorite fruits are those little technicolored chunks of pineapple and maraschino cherry and what-not in Christmas fruitcakes.

Illustration: 'Listen to My Secret Plan' by Roseau

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