This warm winter urges
the fertile earth—stray spears
of green, incipient buds, mud.
It is almost the season of your death.
For a while, you were busy
and then you were dead.
You used to sit in this chair, backbone
easing into your vodka, edges blurring
into dusk. You used to be warm.
You used to know God like I know
the rasp of my own secrets.
I thought my emptiness was a disease—
When we kissed, we were two
vessels creating a vacuum—
No wonder you did what you did.
One night a doe hurled herself
onto my hood—barrel body
skidding into my windshield, moon-eyes
terrified, broken legs kicking, staggering
into dark woods to die alone.
Yes. That is exactly how it was.
Suanne Fetherolf lives in New Jersey, where she teaches writing at Rutgers University. Her work has appeared in Spoon River Poetry Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Clementine Poetry Journal, The Milo, and Isthmus, among other journals, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.