Read an Excerpt
Fawn
Caught beneath a car but found alive,
the fawn screams but doesn’t kick,
and it’s too late. Her spine is crushed.
I try to hold her still. I didn’t know
how bright her spots would be,
her dappled coat, my shaking hand
across her flank as if to wipe her clean.
Her eyes so wide, so close to mine,
I see my entire face inside.
It’s years before a boy will throw me
to the ground, and years before I’ll dream
his face, so close to mine, and scream
myself awake. I’m still a girl. I still believe
in wild things, that the startled animal
in my chest is not the fawn I carry in a bag,
wrapped and tied, like a gift, or grief.
American Icon
Like a mother’s throw
blanket over his shoulders,
like a little piece of home.
Like a homemade costume
any child wears, standing on
his mother’s canned goods, striking
a pose and making a face, though
he can’t see. He can’t see. Witch
or monk or Jesus incarnate,
the wires are live. Like a real live
wire, he jumps. Like hopscotch
or rope. Like nothing a child
couldn’t name. Hasn’t seen.
Like nothing, like a game.
