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a desert carpet
of invisible diamonds
warming in the sun—
listening, we all stop cold
and shy at the touch of sage

you’re just scared silly
by Saturday’s freak hail storm—
twice white lightning cracked
and struck the same fir—the one
last year already burned black

we found a mule deer
half breaking from a snow drift
its eyes picked to holes—
quick yipping filled the stillness
but coyotes never came—

I guess they were more afraid
of us than I thought—
since by spring the bones were torn—
stripped clean to the hooves

don’t fear the green and grassy
knoll—my father laughed—
always laughed—fear the people
shadowed deep behind

 


Jennifer Met lives with her husband and children in North Idaho. Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in  Zone 3, Moon City Review, Gulf Stream, Sleet Magazine, Apeiron Review, Weirderary, Kestrel, Juked, Barely South Review, and elsewhere. She currently serves as assistant poetry editor for the Indianola Review and is addicted to tomatoes.

© 2016, Jennifer Met

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