Bike
BY RACHEL LONG
Tyres fast over gravel
sounds like pissing
Something tells her
not to go as far
as the abattoir
The sign for Deer 1/2 mile
has collapsed
by the roadside
She calls him deer
for his stubborn gentleness,
his legs in the tan dress
that hasn’t suited her for years
There! Through those trees
her teenage bedroom
in the upstairs window
of someone else’s house
Sometimes she looks down
at her feet now and asks,
who the hell do you think you are?
–trainers flecked with grass,
cycling through the countryside, a shock
of yellow headscarf
He, too, calls her deer
but she can’t be, can she?
–What doe would’ve worn fishnets
to a house party of hunters,
taken a pissy lift up
to their fifteenth-floor cabin
and knocked?
Run!
In these hooves?
Through an estate
built like Tetris?
Have you ever fled uphill–
hill of concrete,
acres of balconies identical
unanswerable doors–
reciting Psalm 23?
She speeds downhill
takes her feet o the pedals
surely goodness and mercy will follow me
Her bike wobbles
a tooth loose
in the mouth of the road
Deer have milk teeth
They lose them
at eighteen months old.