They overhear but don’t understand
a man moving his mouth
I’m writing a script about
a girl who’s afraid of cars!
A Mercury Cougar glazes past, red, and parks.
They touch their noses to convertible hoods.
Who will give them a hamburger today?
What car will they leap,
brown-fixed, these deer farouche—
spray-painted flanks—necks tagged by scraping past?
Bloated deer wait, overhear an egregious mistake.
They read carefully
how to deal with broken glass, star maps,
fur matted with mayonnaise:
one rotates an ear, stiff, toward a window
listen to him smell him
a boy like a dead foot.
Trust and day-long fear.
Every moment is danger, every woman a bullet.
To deer there’s no bride catches on fire, is there?
Is it possible to represent a hunt without being ironic?
Deer dart away, big hairy words
like freedom and will,
two words wearing sunny lamé while
junked-out kids not making it big
chat, quiz each other on their first memories;
I can fly and jumping off the garage roof.
Paper dries and blows past deer dry and blank.
As if one smoked cigarettes, could kick in your skull for that anthem.
Blasphemy requires this one be dead serious:
The deer touch their noses to the convertible hoods.
Parking lot so crowded with cars late to school
three deer actually puzzle and slide between
bumpers, stand behind a car a woman backs
downhill. She brakes
at the sight of their bulk. Rearview tan fur.
She huff-rants and gets out.
One looks uphill. Another’s
leg barely touches the bumper.
Thirteen minutes. Thirteen
minutes standing with these
tame deer who don’t
speak English or flinch, slowly becoming men.