|Jan/Feb 2012 Poetry|
The deer are on the move. I watch for them
while standing at the kitchen sink, my aunt's
white china sudsy in my hands. It's ten
o'clock, and I've a project to advance.
An albino buck's
in the neighborhood.
I'll lure him to my apple tree,
offer a sweet salt lick.
I'll make him come to me though all the earth's
white fog's been turned to flesh in him. I heard
the gunshots echo from the woods today.
The deer are on the move. I watch for them.