The Quick Rain

by Chris Powici

A roe deer lies cradled in the crook of your arms
a buck of a few months, maybe a year.
Its ribs press against your ribs
its neck touches your neck
but no muscle twitch, no heave of breath

You just want to do the right thing –
lay the body down among the grasses
and clovers at the side of the road
but it’s a rainy October night, without moon or stars
and for all you know, the grass could be tangled
in brambles and fence-wire
and the weight of the deer in your arms
could be the weight of your soul in the world.
For all you know.

Its hooves dangle and swing
and the quick rain beats against the skin and eyes
like a wild clock.