Late February Deer

See how perfectly the deer
become the hill:
what else is visible once they've come?
Everything gathers into their four delicate forms—
the Russian olive's bare branches,
slim trunks of the sumac called into hoof and rack.
And then all at once the deer
step back into the spare bones of winter.
The hill is empty
but for their ghost hearts grown slow on deprivation,
fluttering there awhile
in sudden snow.

There Are Some Places We Cannot Go

Once in summer
a mink and a rabbit ran past,
close to me, but not seeing me.

I thought it was mirage, a lie
rising like a bone in the throat.

Then I wanted to do something,
say something—but what?
We have names for so much in this world,
but some moments refuse our advances.

I see this one still,
the brilliance of mink and rabbit
unnameable.

The rabbit got away.
The mink turned back, empty-mouthed.
Midway to the weeds it turned to look at me.

Its eyes said, Today a woman and a mink
each go home hungry.

MELISSA MONTIMURRO lives in rural northwestern New Jersey with her husband and four sons, where she teaches poetry workshops in the schools, and other locations. Her work has appeared in a number of journals, in print and on the Web, including Iris, The Comstock Review, and NJPoets. New poems are forthcoming in Literal Latte, Kalliope, Tundra, Clay Palm Review, Bugle, Snowy Egret, Old Red Kimono, and others.

ForPoetry