Fifteen

1975: Lyme Connecticut- Something Is Wrong Here

Arthritic oaks in the suburbs of Connecticut
-like walking on marbles, that fall in the forest-
and the deer have come.

We watch them from behind the windows of the family hatchback.
On the neighbor's lawn, they sway like statues on the verge of something.
Glassed over brown eyes, and father buries the body behind the woodpile.

The newspapers tell us that we are both in the glorious endtimes
and that we are divorced from all animate things.
That we know. Mother's on her second marriage. We don't talk about it.

We are caught in surges of Saudi oil,
gobalization sings cheerful company anthems,
our president seems nice, and we're out of Vietnam.

But, still.
Last night, a deer stood on the double yellow lines of Park Street.
Florescent streetlights watched impartially as her legs buckled
and finally collasped;
lay in the road, gasping.