Madeline Allen

Parable of the Fawn

after Brigit Pegeen Kelly

I saw once, in a rose garden,
five still-spotted fawns
displaying their jutting ribs
to the empty parking lot.
The streetlights were out.
The fawns were hungry
as all new things are hungry—
without knowing how to wear it.

There was no color in the garden,
nor any sound. The fawns ate
what was left of the roses,
which were far past their prime,
their petals gently carpeting the paths.
The roses were old enough to know
thorns were no defense against fawns like that.
They knew not to cry out,
because no one could hear them,
there was no sound, remember.

Just outside the garden lay
a panting dog chained in a small yard.
His snout was graying and his once-pointy ears
flopped down over his eyes. He’d pulled
at his chain for hours trying to reach
the fawns, his teeth bared,
his tongue lolling, but he was just too far. 

He was trying to warn them.
The fawns were still confusing airplanes
for first stars, still thought the raging of the horns
they could hear from the highway
was a sign that someone was coming
to lead them to an open field
for grazing and bedding down.
He whispered a futile fable to them.
But there was no sound in the garden,
remember. So the fawns lay still,
the dog pulled weakly on his chain,
and the water in the fountain ran,
not with water,
but bloody with rust.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Madeline Allen studies creative writing at Allegheny College. You can find her work in Biscuit Hill and forthcoming from The Oakland Arts Review. When not writing, she enjoys running and watching horror movies.