I duck under the great low-sweeping
hemlock boughs, enter night
hiding at noon where a bloom of white
resolves into you: the skull of a white-
tail buck. I pick you up: a little shocked
at the parts we share: eye sockets, nasal
cavity, incisors. You bear the skeleton
of a veiny leaf: a coat
of arms tattooed on top of your head.
And I see now that you are not just one
whole, but stitched together with fine,
intricate lines: like cave drawings,
once meaningful. I want to ask you
how you lived, how you persisted as far
as you could. Here. I want to tell you
there are whole days I can barely
stand up, never mind run or turn
to leap, and I would gladly trade
my skull, this hard case of clustered
storms, for your sleek contour, your
fiercely driven nights, your one broken
antler with which I would thrash and knock
through the seasons that remain
—from Augur
Originally published in North American Review, Vol. 303 No. 2, Spring 2018
as a finalist for the 2018 James Hearst Poetry Award