Skip to main content

You are here

A Doe Waits for Death

Spring 2014 - Vol. 56, No. 2


This poem appears in the Spring 2014 issue of Modern Age. To subscribe now, go here.


She is sitting quietly on the median strip,
legs folded under, like an animal in a crèche.

Or with half-closed eyes, she could be
part of a Pietà. She’s been hit, it seems,

although I arrive too late to know. Policemen
stand awkwardly around her, unclear what to do,

their cars on the shoulder swirling red, blue lights.
I think of stopping, calling for my vet to come

with his merciful needle. I think of getting out,
kneeling beside her, placing a hand of comfort

on her head. When I drive home from work,
she’s gone. The road is just a road again.