Cathedral
Below open spires of red rock
the deer rinses dead skin
from his shriveled antlers,
then hobbles away, browsing,
through buckskin grass,
color gone worthless in the fall sun.
He has turned broadside to me,
but he is safe. I have no weapons
but memory. Our last hunt here,
my father had to stop
every few feet to beg for air.
I went on to pray for the miracle
that would flush from the low cedars,
and run straight for my father,
who pulled the trigger
without taking aim.
It is a miraculous love
that commends a toothless man,
kneeling before a bloody animal,
laughing, gasping, laughing.
for Joe Hodge
1921-1988
--Fishing for the Moon
