by Sarah Getty

    The deer——neck not birch trunk， eyes

    not leaf or shadow， comes clear

    from nowhere at the eye's edge.

    The woman's legs stop.  Her mind

    lags， then flashes， "Deer at edge

    of the woods."  The deer's eyes， black

    and fragile， stare back and stop

    her breathing.  The breeze drops.  Light

    shines every leaf.  She enters

    that other world， her feet stone

    still on the path.  The deer stands

    pat and takes her in.  Antlered，

    static as an animal——

    not a statue， photograph，

    any substitute——can be

    because it wants to， it includes

    her in the world it watches.

    She notes its coat， thick， stiff

    like straw， with a straw-like shine.

    There， where the ribs¹ are， she sees

    no rise or fall of breathing.

    She breathes， shyly， attempting

    the etiquette² of quiet.

    She goes over what she knows

    of antlers， those little trees

    of bone， grown for a season

    and shed like leaves.  The deer's head，

    she thinks， is hieroglyphic³，

    eyes of wet ink， unblinking.

    No golden links clasp the neck——

    no deer of Arthur's this， sent

    as a sign.  The woman finds

    and fingers these few deer-thoughts

    in her mind.  But she's no match

    for its stasis， she hasn't

    the tact⁴.  Tableau⁵， entrancement——

    but what's the second panel

    of the tapestry⁶？  She moves，

    not back， discreetly⁷， as one

    would leave a king， but forward，

    to have it done.  To free （or，

    less likely， fall on one knee，

    petitioning）。  The deer moves，

    smooth as a fish， is gone.  Green

    edges waver and reknit.

    The light shifts.  The woman， two-

    legged still， walks on.  "I saw

    a deer，" she will say， pouring

    coffee.  Not "I was."  "I saw."

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