ILLUSION OF LETTING GO

I see a freckled fawn

dead beside the road

and then a doe standing

at the edge of the trees.

I know about illusion--

the lady sawed in half made whole,

bright scarves pulled from sleeves,

flowers from empty hats,

escape from manacles,

like children slipping our grasp.

Will she move on

when her fawn does not rise

on spindly legs, when flies

gather buzzing, when crows

come to tear the flesh?

Will she dream

white speckled forms

leap roadside fences or

bodies mend with a flick of an ear,

a lick of a tongue?

Wouldn't her fawn follow?

Hadn't she always?

She turns, lifts her tail,

white beneath as new snow

and vanishes into dark woods,

leaping fallen trees,

listening for the sound of hooves behind.