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A Lonely Yearling, for Laura, who witnessed it.

(Where, after all, could it lead?
Our families are against it. Our customs are against it.
You are lonely now—on your own—your mother gone,
and so you come to me.)

“The deer kept moving closer to her for about forty-five minutes. Sometimes it would tap the ground a little to try to get her attention, but the cat never turned around—she just sat on the rock with her back to him. Finally the deer made a sound: it was like a moan, or a lowing, or like a long “baa.” Mushroom’s ears turned backwards but she didn’t turn her head.”

(Where, after all, could it lead?
And if I turned around, and met your soft gaze, what then?
Would you approach me further? Would we touch our noses?
And then, what then?)


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