Jacqueline Powers

Coming Home

She’s drawn to the window,
to the deer with the old bullet hole
in its side, all four hooves

still planted in the garden,
the squirrel-toppled bird feeder,
seed far-flung.
Life passes but the view remains the same.

Gondola clouds, the sky a swelling gray sea.
Branches creak,
a shutter flies at a blue jay.

She raps on the window but the deer
does not budge.
Raps again.

She wants to open the window
and shout,
but knows the deer will just stand and stare,

as though she is the intruder––
as though she does not belong.
She opens the window

and sticks her head out,
thirsty for rain,
the fresh mist scent in her eyes.

He tells her time moves slowly
when she’s away.
They watch the news

about wild salmon dying off
and he says,
I would swim upstream to spawn with you.

 

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