but monsters are always hungry
my name's rigby and this is an inspiration blog. posts are tagged content and triggering material. will be NSFW
the stag and the quiver / richard siken

1

Once there was a deer called stag. A white breasted, a many pointed. He refused to still when he halted, the hooves in his mind were always lifted. Everything comes close, the branches slide. In a clearing made of cleavings, stag sees another stag. They watch each other, they share no story. I will not cross you and you must move on. There is nothing else. It reminds me of some tale, stay with me to remember, it reminds me of where I was going without you.



2

The hunter sinks his arrows into the trees and then paints the targets around them. The trees imagine they are deer. The deer imagine they are safe. The arrows: they have no imagination.

All night the wind blows through the trees. It makes a sound.

The hunter’s son watches the hunter. The hunter paints more rings on his glasses. Everything is a target, says the hunter. No matter where you look. The hunter’s son says nothing, and closes his eyes.



3

The hunter’s son watches the stag.

Clench is a hand word. His hand is clenched. Door with a bad hinge, it wouldn’t open. Do not let go of the arrow, let it slip through your fingers as you relax your grip. This is good advice. He couldn’t do it. There is no way to get to the future from here.

The key to archery is sustained attention. An arrow is a stick with feathers, an extension of the mind. Men and their thoughts, their quivers and their arrows: it helps to see how these things move, and where they land.

The stag watches the hunter’s son.



4

This is a story of loops, at least one. I stepped off the loop. I spent time listening, testing realms. I snapped a twig in my head and struck out. You know what it’s like to be alone: gimlets and vermicide. You know what it’s like to be alive, so forgiveness.

All night the trees stand silent in the dark, not touching.

I put on the deer suit. I turned my ears in all directions. I’ll live alone or in between. This is the testimony of the deer: solitude, the long corridors, love from a distance. You asked me once, What are we made of? Well, these are the things we’re made of. One house, two house. The road goes away from here.

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"She lives, the bird says, and means nothing
silly. She is dead and available,
the fox says, knowing about the spirits.
Not the picture at the funeral,
not the object of grieving. She is dead
and you can have that, he says. If you can
love without politeness or delicacy,
the fox says, love her with your wolf heart.
As the dead are to be desired.
Not the way long marriages are,
nothing happening again and again.
Not in the woods or the fields.
Not in the cities. The painful love of being
permanently unhoused. Not the color, but the stain."
how to love the dead, jack gilbert (via daughterofthewillowtrees, milkdrop) (via deepwoodsteaparty, ptasiemleczko) (via sigilmilk)
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balsambreath:

I thought of texting you
"good morning, I can’t sleep"
and then I remembered
that you are on a journey
which I am not a part of
and that’s okay
but
good morning
I can’t sleep

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