Red Orchard
I don’t remember
much about the day the deer jumped
the fence and broke its neck.
Late summer and I inhaled
the plump morning air—red
apples, brown
sugar and grass, my
pudgy feet padding the damp
linoleum squares
where sunlit streams flooded gol-
den through the yawning kitchen window.
And out that window, just beyond
the five-foot chain link line,
an antlered buck
lay, his great head twisted
toward an ‘appled’ sky.
Then my mother
a steam kettle whist-
ling “look away! look away!” “look away!”
and my father’s whispers
thick curtains closing
on the jagged red light rising.
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