How It Went
Because the doe lay down to die
in our field, dark bloom smudged on one flank,
I kept watch over her
from behind the barnyard wall as I worked
and waited for the man from church who eats
what he kills to arrive with his gun.
I was twisting grapevines into wreaths, weaving
them with cedar and bittersweet.
December, season of holy days and hunts.
I watched her belly lift and fall
and she watched me watch her.
So when I walked the man into the field,
she simply raised her head, held steady.
No one moved.
If stillness charged with electricity
can be called understanding,
I’d say that passed between us.
Then I turned both mind and body
back to work and he smoothly raised
his arms as one, lifted the gun.
Hayden Saunier is the author of six poetry collections, including her most recent book, Wheel. Her work has been awarded a Pushcart Prize, Nimrod International’s Pablo Neruda Prize, the Rattle Poetry and Gell Poetry prizes, and has been published in The Sun, 32 Poems, Shenandoah, Virginia Quarterly Review, and Poetry Daily, among other journals and publications. She founded and directs the interactive poetry performance group No River Twice. For more information, visit haydensaunier.com.
