In Badlands
After I shot the deer
and it fell on a rough ledge,
ancient prayers of thanks
to my father flooded out of me.
Then I climbed to the ledge
and spoke soft words to the deer.
A sound from the last shifting of blood
or breath inside its ribs let me understand
how such a noise may come from my chest
for someone else to hear—at a highway
accident perhaps, or in the careful bed
of a quiet room.
But it might be out on the land
where trees or grass stems stand
against the sky, or at a place like this
with only the open earth and spilling air,
only the high, clean light.
C.E. Greer
(Sin Fronteras Journal, 14 Spring, 2010)
