Malak Mattar, Untitled (detail), 2024, charcoal on paper
Every Part of the Animal
Cervical being
of the neck (cervix) and not
of the deer (cervus), though
one might bend hers grace-
ful as a willow branch
when she drinks from the river.
I would only wrap my hands
around the neck of that deer
if she asked it of me, and even
then I would use only the
most necessary strength,
watching for the flutter of her
lashes, her eyes wide and
flickering toward
the soft white spots
dappling the sky. Is that
nostalgia parting her mouth—
it is nostalgia, yes,
I’m sure of it, but
for what? Air? The river?
It doesn’t matter. I would watch her
face for fear like a predator
watching as her cubs starve,
my hands gentle as she’d
allow me to be. One
pressing down around
the throat, one aligning
itself with
the spine. We both came
to the water to be found
by the water. Here, joy
is the only hunter
and pleasure the butcher-
ed meat, though it runs
through the trees before it’s caught
by our snared bodies,
all of us hungry, and
limping from older wounds.
Jaz Sufi is a mixed-race Iranian-American poet and arts educator. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in PANK, AGNI, Birdfeast, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. A Kundiman Fellow and National Poetry Slam finalist, she is an MFA candidate and Goldwater Fellow at New York University. (updated 4/2020)