William C. Olsen
The Afterlife of Deer
a habit deer have
What they are to me until they happen
in snow/leaf/wind
sun/rain/moon
is nothing if not always serendipitous
In my globe of space and time
they change place with one another That
is what memory is
That is why we die
interchangeable
shadows of scud-clouds scudded across winter’s
blade-scraped ice
heaven is the same
for them
frozen pond
empty swing sets
heaven
unfortunate birth
uncontrollable circumstance
heaven
they dream of corn
our underworld
this ice pond
Heaven’s roof we walk gingerly upon
or its ceiling cracks
Death is beneath us
Heaven is beneath us
Earth is beneath us
Joy is beneath us Contempt
is only human
We are told not to feed
Whatever record left behind
only yesterday
The nuanced tilt of the two halves
of the hoof prints
whatever thought them up
not all that mindful
The oaks start bearing
pea-sized acorns
cut down on predators
there is no other choice but life and more life
or less
and let the animals starve
and not to feed
just watch That was what our life was
Their tracks get all mixed up for us
Their silence is
unheard of
a time before paradise or loss
that calm of theirs good sense
Best to go unseen
How have their carcasses been disposed
You can’t see hear
you can’t even smell
such sour silence
Did I tell you about three of them
the family I talked to
as to a pet or a child
baby talk what I said depending
so little on them
surprise didn’t speak a word it washed its hands
Their very appearance is a cliff
I walk off
and fall to earth and live to tell Their Story
My memory
is a thief and my imagination
an undertaker
some family
unmoved
surprised
Harvest midnight
Carcass strung up on a basketball hoop
is still twirling
Harvest bleeds
gyres
on driveway
the sun shining down Where you are
they are
never to be lost or found
no ghost with pen can put to speech or song
one who looked up at me
from the golf course
through the windshield of my moving car
made eye contact and held it
and looked and looked
Memory drove away
sight of tongue
sleight of eyes
They disappear only to reappear
key deer all trust and littleness
shying almost
right up to us
in a dream they showed up dark green
bleeding sap
from the teeth of a backhoe
And did I tell you about the
one just
outside
I was the guy
whose office window that one walked by
like I wasn’t there
indifferent if from many singled out
one of those heavenly days
beautiful enough to die
Deer grazing up in the clouds
able to bear
them
Look up there
Up there
are spring flowers and overgrazing and harvest
Not so near nor so far
No ghost pen can put to tune or speech
wind both fierce and light
Grazing on snow falling upwards
for all I know
All I know
hurts and the afterlife
of a world of hurt
lets me near them
Above that you are able
to escape that you are
or may be able to bear
the one who walked out of the scrub
across beach front right
up to lake was no longer a cherub with antlers
and bent down as if
it were itself an if
and lowered a head as an if
and drank from the if-ebb
It might have been a ghost
Alive still or probably not
death doesn’t have a prayer