So many deer die in poems, I am due
to hit one. I stop
on the lookout as the sun sets
on my face, air hot
with road tar. No job and help wanted
for what escapes me.
In the bowl of a hill rimmed with firs,
a doe stalls to chew grass.
Her white tail dismisses
the gossip of flies. Doesn’t she know
someone is always out for blood, men
will field-dress a deer fresh-hit.
Sixteen-wheelers downshift. Far removed
from their thumping decels, she
does not look up. She stays in place
as she pulls up roots, shadows lengthening
to reach her. Once, our hands so hungry
we filled them with each other in the dark—
darkness, tunnels ahead, ash where light hits.
Jane C. Miller’s poetry has appeared in Kestrel, Apple Valley Review and Summerset Review, among others. She received first prize in the 2020 Naugatuck River Review narrative poetry contest and her second fellowship in 2021 from the Delaware Division of the Arts. Miller is co-author of the poetry collection, Walking the Sunken Boards (Pond Road Press, 2019) and an editor of the online poetry journal, ൪uartet (www.quartetjournal.com).