A Song for the Doe-Thief
by Bill King
In the pre-dawn fog before the log trucks’ rumble
and old folks (like me) perk their morning coffee,
the big doe descends (again) to graze on lilies
unfolded—yellows, golds, and pastel pinks (I’m told)
trucked all the way from my sister-in-law’s,
four states south in Georgia. Three years in a row.
You’d think I’d learn. Two-toeing concrete, asphalt,
ghosting six-foot fences, yard to yard to yard,
until she finds (again) that Shangri-La—
that nirvana of unburst suns in the devil’s strip
between sidewalk and the road. Who can blame her?
One could do worse, I think, than map the world
with nose and eye and tongue. Which is why her theft
of my in-law’s gift has not been cursed but sung.
Bill King (he/him) is a Pushcart Prize nominee who has published in many journals and anthologies, including 100 Word Story, The Southern Poetry Anthology, Still: The Journal, Kestrel, and Appalachian Heritage. He grew up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of southwestern Virginia, holds an M.A. in Creative Writing and a Ph.D. in Literature from the University of Georgia, and teaches Creative Writing and Literature at Davis & Elkins College in Elkins, West Virginia. His chapbook, from Finishing Line Press, is The Letting Go (2018).
