by Katherine Szpekman
On the way home
from Petco, at the darkest bend
in the neighborhood,
where the land is without houses,
and no holiday lights shine,
my headlights land upon a doe.
She stands in the road,
as if she is waiting for me,
as if she isn’t in any danger.
She would be so easy to kill;
but I am driving slowly.
Stopping for her is sudden,
but controlled, and I remember
that if there is a mother,
there are usually babies,
on pencil legs, with fluttery ears.
I wait; but none follow.
And as she breaks our shared gaze,
leaps into the darkness, and vanishes
into the snowy brush,
I wonder where you are tonight;
if you are alone.
I wonder if you too have been spared,
have safely crossed over
to wherever you have fled.
I wonder if you know
all the times I stopped for you;
how much I love you.
— from Juniper Volume 4, Issue 3