Spooked whitetail doe, young buck
couple paces back, they’re knee-deep
in the marsh, they’re knee-deep in gold
plated sky. Dig with your fingernails
at the years stuck in the grooves behind
their erect ears, watch your fingerprints
stick to the smoothness of their bodies
then wipe them away. Tiny duck
at the edge has to be a Mallard, all
the ducks on the things your father owned
were Mallard, you know it would squawk
at you if you could get any closer. You
value the consistency. These things
are static. Inside, the hands tick fixed,
holding each other back.
SARAH GZEMSKI is currently working toward her MFA in Poetry at New Mexico State University. Some of her other work has appeared in Emerge Literary Journal. Originally from Pennsylvania, forests continue to invade her desert poetry.