The Birth of Deer

A pencil drawing of a deer sitting in the grass

I dreamt last night that I was giving birth to a Deer.

I was surrounded by shadowed faces, none of them menacing, all of them expectant, watching. Somehow I was cutting myself open from the inside with a knife, a self-induced Cesarean, the silver blade protruding from my belly without spilling a single drop of blood.

Deer’s limbs began emerging from the chasm of my body, with knobby knees and soft, downy fur. A small face testing the air.

I began to slip back into consciousness before the birth was complete.

“You must give birth to Deer,” the faceless midwife said to me as I began to wake. “It is the only way the Bear inside you will come out and speak.”