An Elk: I Knew You Were | By Molly A. Green

I knew you were—

an elk, lifting your chin above

me, trapping my breath in

a labyrinth of shadows, your antlers,

an ego sprouting from your brain.

I knew you were—

an elk, steering clear of

me, focusing your dead, dirt

brown eyes, wading forward in

a water overwhelming with pride.

I knew you were—

an elk, sharing empty thoughts with

me, brushing your jawline with

your hooves, at a distance,

pretending to care on a hillside.

I knew you were—

an elk, only ever calling out to

me with muffled sound strings, but

I would suffer your screaming bugle

when all I wanted was a phone ring.

I knew you were—

an elk, composing apologies to

me, pulling out the grass beneath

us, leaving your herd for the horizon

and yourself for the time being.

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Molly A. Green is an emerging writer from Western Pennsylvania who has been published in the literary journals Pulp, Crêpe & Penn, The Raven Review, The WEIGHT Journal, and Ample Remains. She is a staff member for The Incandescent Review, BatCat Press, and Shambles literary journal. Outside of writing, Molly enjoys drawing portraits and spending time with her pet cat, Cornflake. She can be found on Twitter @bumblebeemolly.