To the deer I did not kill today—
to the deer that did not kill me:
May that last layer of air
between you and calamity,
thin as innocence and as easily ripped,
somehow always hold.
May you cut it so close
that if you think about it
any longer than your leap lasted,
you can almost feel the memory of impact,
though you cannot find the laceration.
May angels spoil you with rescue
and devils close their claws upon your back
so that you’ll leave them
with a mocking snatch of fur
when you fly past.
And may you be changed in my car’s wake,
not to tiptoe now through defenseless fields
or bolt at thunder’s throaty hallelujah,
but to run faster, love rasher
the wind that once cushioned you
from metal death against your chest,
charging every leaf-tinted what-if
and rallying at every fence,
counting on last-minute grace
until your last second ends.
Backyard Apricots 