The Deer Who Won’t Go Away
by Freya Manfred
To save him, I stopped traffic with waving arms
and sent him galloping
across the highway to our woods,
where he waited in the lilacs by the from door,
sniffing the wind and studying me.
Later, he legged silently up behind me
as I weeded the garden, and stood
three feet from my outstretched fingers,
more composed and curious
than any deer I’ve ever seen.
I am drawn outside, again and again,
toward his gentle assertion.
He won’t permit my touch,
but gazes at me with the brown eyes of a lover.
His breathing alters my breath
until I am no longer aware of myself,
or of anything–
separate from his gaze.
You can read this poem in Swimming With A Hundred Year Old Snapping Turtle.