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.