—For Reid
I believe it was a deer
in the rain-silver road—
like a taste of metal on the tongue
or at the back of the throat—making you turn
the wheel to the right very hard,
and, as I recall too fast.
Or was it just
the specter of a tree limb
swept by an island of wind,
that startled you
to steer to the north
on that slick winter road?
But perhaps it was that straight
stretch of black before the ground
turned into a bow of young birch trees
that folded up an envelope of wind-
shield, headlights, steel, and glass.
Then a cradle.
Then a sling of violins,
of boughs, tumbling toward a bowl of black and blue with stars.
And a crown for your head, a mold of my left hip.
Yes… I think that was it at last.
There was a small brown deer that you held inside your arms.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
