On the tip of a hill, the silhouette is of something not of this world,
the body silent in the birth of another shadow, swelling still
among stars & veins. The sun dropping below the mountains left
hardly any light, except what glimmers on the membrane & slips
into the high grass. Alone, I pulled over to the side
of 81 where semis' blowing horns descend
beyond the sloped field. Pieces of barbed wire snapped from the line.
I stepped through the fence, its blood-colored rust rubbed into my hands.
For a moment, it is something that stays with me, like a memory
that does not give up easily. I try wiping my hands onto my jeans, but nothing.
It is anything it wants to be—calf, half-life, angel—its fur a glaze
of cricket sounds & cool air, a thing of stars burnt into hooves, a haze,
& I stood there, not knowing whether it would be right to touch the one
not breathing, its nose drying in the grass next to my hands, grit
in the creases & burning now with the dust of splinters. Like flies,
my fingers hover over the dead face.
It feels to me, as if you may have hit an animal by mistake, but in visiting its resting place, have at least shown empathy if not sympathy. Nice poem, even if I missed your real mark. Danny
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I enjoy it.Thanks for shairing, Jon.