Darker Fables

Writing and reviews. Adventures, maybe? Exciting, definitely.




Skittish, she flees
at the first tremble of thunder,
the first flashing of eyes,
long gone before teeth are bared.

But it is not for a dog to complain
over what needs chasing
just to find the way home.

White tufts blowing in the bracken
and two-toed prints show
where she was, before
the storm was so fierce.

The grass is glistening in the rain,
just as sweet as sugarsnap peas,
a new green cemetery of names
that are not yet forgiven.

There’s a bleating, somewhere
in these echoing hills,
like a child in dark wilderness,
but the wind snatches all away.

© Deanna Scutt, 2018



I could call it a hex
the words that pulled you
out and away downstream.

And the winds rolling in
say storms would have come erelong,
to strip the ground as bare as a mirror.

Labyrinthine, is the origami
you make of yourself,
folded nine ways from the truth,
those scissors driving home.

But I am sorry after all this,
and sorry for that as well,
as my heart quickens onwards
and I swim the summer night.

We were flowers, perhaps,
but not ones with particular meaning.

So go, as I go,
and let’s not speak again of love or life
or death. I remember so much opinion,
and my patience is not what it was.

Too sharp, too green,
those fruits we picked.
They left my teeth on edge.

© Deanna Scutt, 2018

Grey Green

My blood was once
a stream of cement,
and I remain well-acquainted
with bone wall prisons.

My breath,
and the hairs on my hands
say the past is less
than a lifetime ago.

Ravens and doves,
living high in my towers,
were a raucous cawing that I never

Not until the waters came,
and left me barefoot
in the rags of my fine gowns.

Now here,
these petty salt marshes
leave me more than the
proverbial beggar.

No more slaving
or sweet dreams.

© Deanna Scutt, 2018


It’s clear
that if I could,
I would cut my body
into pieces, and file
those pieces
into separate plastic bags.

Most I would cast away
into all the different oceans.

I might keep my eyes,
the shape of my hands,
the way a line runs
down my breastbone,
but these things,
more than anything,
are delicate.

Upon consideration it’s
all more corruption,
unworthy of anyone’s interest.

I love my father’s cheekbones,
but not when I seek
a vampire’s absence.

Ways to look into
dark, glass water,
and be, but not be,
to slip away unseen.

© Deanna Scutt, 2018


Ah, this soft-skinned child
let wind blow through her.

No more hiding in the roots
of shivering blossom trees.

If I was what I was
then I carry my regrets,
and shed them as feathers
for a warmer, brighter coat.

These waters, soft and saline,
have ravaged my throat,
not like bleach but a scream
that seeped up through my skin.

If you are singing then I hear you,
if not I imagine
and unmake
the hollow structure of my bones.

© Deanna Scutt, 2018


I am not the praying type,
but I throw my head down,
for summons, for spirits,
for feu sacré.

City of surrealists, yet I
embraced pre-assigned stories,
those Grimm fairy tales
about young writers in Paris.

If being is close to believing,
then I had nothing left to learn,
only so many words,
there but stripped of meaning.

This slow-moving river
has pulled me
deeper into sand than water,
but still I spent summer dancing,
romanced, though I slept alone.

Now we are waiting for spring,
water around our ankles,
and I think in another city
this would still be a song
for the times, different
than the days before.

© Deanna Scutt, 2018

Wind Song

Were you singing last night?
Or was it just the rain,
flicking its tongue
at the bolted window?

I’ve never been here before,
to this place like Narnia,
which I love like all the secrets
I’ve ever been told.

For the first time in life,
I feel like a body,
no more a voice,
snatched from the wind.
I am a kite on higher currents,
reeling out and in.

Those little moments
in this darkened room
make me earth beneath flame,
ash and air, or roots with a name.

I can’t see the moon
with my head on your shoulder,
but on these occasions
when darkness pervades,
I sink
in soft waters.

I forget places,

© Deanna Scutt, 2018


These days it’s
squeezing juice
out from a lemon,
grinding pulp
over plastic
until nothing
means nothing.

We can go
to different houses,
provided shoes
aren’t in the safe,
and the locked
door opens, no need
for crowbars.

I thought…
but that’s besides
the actual point,
which is I came here
to sign, not sigh
over what might

I know
I squirm, cat-like,
all claw and fang,
but if you let go
my tail,
I might return.

It’s plausible,
one possibility
for my many lives.

© Deanna Scutt, 2017


Swimming in the black lake,
I was shivering by night.

All my bones were aching,
soon to fall asunder.

There was one white moon
blinking over the water.

It differed from my dreams.

On shore stood a horseman,
with his slender red mare.

I knew him as my brothers,
though we had never met.

The blade was mine to give,
and so it parted from me.

He left, and I forgot him,
until the mists came,
and a boat crossed the water.

© Deanna Scutt, 2018

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