The Still Hours

Aza Pace | Poetry

In the garden, inexplicably
dead without a scratch,
a fawn is a kind of secret.

I crane my neck like a doe,
searching for someone
behind the trees to want him.

Maybe someone watches
to see if I want him. Odd offering,
he is knotted like a silk scarf in the ivy.

(My secret is I’m so fond
of everything
it’s embarrassing.)

I carry him, death-heavy,
in my softest pillowcase,
and bury him at the look-out,

mark the spot
with a scrap of limestone.
Soon, I will only remember.

Suffering ticks like a clock
above the forest, the field.
In a pause, like the top of an inhale,

moss spreads luminous across the stone.
In the quiet hours, any small
kindness, while no one sees.