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.
Comments