Skip to content

Deer, a jackrabbit the size of a motorcycle.

- Tim Lilburn

Hit quick, the road-wasted stag

fell like the sick sorrel horse

we hunted by syringe

in a 3 x 5 pen. His fallen

figure-skater sprawl

drew out our awe, lying

on his own canvas of blood,

iron tailings from a ran-down mill.

Overcoated men with leather bags

of tinctures and bitters

couldn't bring him around.

Witnesses stood, arms crossed,

afraid their hands might reach

for the debris of muscle guyropes

knifed by the blunt bumper of an SUV.

Looking aside I saw

a young woman come out

of the woods and work

her way through the crowd,

coming to rest in a kneel

at the buck's breast.

We moved to halt her

but she heeled us with one hand

while the other slid to his snapped

sapling crown. She rubbed her fingers

gently down his brow, grappling his snout

to bring his half-yard of neck right round.

Making Sure

Jeramy Dodds

More from
Poem of the Week

Dzvinia Orlowsky

Wine of Angels

translated from the Ukrainian written by
Natalka Bilotserkivets