Nothing Held

by Jory Mickelson

What it is to run without
restraint away from
anything: the wind, a car horn,

an aspen leaf that flashes
me to flight, to bound past
the boundless field leaving

an empty shape of air that held
just me, until that hollow only
holds the thought of gone—

The blue van and its
empty driver’s seat against
the wet chain link fence,

on the other side, like witness,
a doe’s femur gone
green from rain and age,

in the backseat,
a body victoriously