POEM | Lynn Otto
Still with My Mother A doe gave birth in the yard below. So still with my mother at the window, I spoke low of what we both could see—look, look. From holding myself motionless, an ache came up my legs and back. Was it so long? The mother nudged and nursed the just-born fawn and then ignored it, turned away and strained until a second tumbled to the ground— she licked it clean. Then both came to her sides, and when she walked, they followed her to nearby woods. How thin, how fine, the fawns and their mother. They all knew what to do, and have I ever?
64 | Raleigh Review
