Public Republic

Christina Lovin

Photo: Zest-pk

They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
James Wright, “A Blessing”

Now there are two. Seven deer, I’m told, before
the cougar’s appetite growled: one by one they were taken
down to the forest’s soft floor. Just these two escaping:
a tale told by the ragged ear of the one, the nervous
watching by the other. But now they still themselves.
Aware that I am near they do not startle, barely move
across the grass, pause like warm brown statues framed
against trees nearly black in the dusk, but silvery
with mist near their tops. There are two: just enough to take care
of the business of grooming. They stand neck-to-neck,
each licking, nuzzling, teasing the ticks and lice from the other’s
coarse fur, enjoying the comfort, the contact, like horses do.
As do humans. As do you; as do I. Touch me here, then,
softly as deer’s breath. I will touch you there, where
your mother held you in her arms, your neck against her shoulder.
Not where the raging fire begins, where undergrowth sparks
and catches and we are lost in its blaze. No, here,
where the hushed forest opens and the two quiet bodies
have disappeared into the green darkness within.

Alderson Experimental Forest
March, 2007

Lancaster, Kentucky
From Little Fires, Finishing Line Press