I know she’s called a fawn. But baby

I think when this one wobbles onto the road,

each step stacking fresh bones, her body just congealed

trembles, stutters behind her mother.

When she falls, it’s all-at-once

crashing to a nest of stillness on the pavement.

Kneeling beside her, I try let’s go now, come on now—

The slit of her eyes stares to some ancient well

of instinct, unmoving. Is she breathing?

When I wrap the towel around her,

her legs let go limp, dangle as I carry her

to grass. Here’s the place I tell you

I have no children. Here’s the flood

of mother un-fed inside, rushing

and shining for its moment. I carry her

tenderly with a towel, careful not to leave

my scent. I put her down and the ground gathers

her speckled fur, limbs folding into themselves, even breath

bundled into hush. I know her mother, hidden, waits.

I can’t regret my actual life. This one

where I walk away.