Heidi Beck

                        A girl steps from a yellow bus

                        at Loon Pond Road, anticipating

                        a long walk home—down the hill,

                        around the pond, past the swamp

                        with the beaver dam, the final stretch

                        just woods—with her heavy bag of books.

                        It’s hunting season, and the men

                        are out in pick-up trucks, stalking

                        through the woods with ammo, scopes

                        and shotguns, dressed in their camo,

                        carrying coolers stuffed with cans

                        of Budweiser, Coors, Tuborg Gold.

                        The girl puts on a safety vest, flimsy

                        fabric in fluorescent orange, begins

                        to sing—Supertramp, Fleetwood Mac,

                        all the lyrics to Evita—loud and long,

                        so they hear she is not a deer, so loud

                        she does not hear the pick-up truck slow

                        behind her. It pulls ahead, stops,

                        just past the swamp. Hello, Honey,

                        where you heading to? She smells

                        the beer as they corral her. Let us help,

                        all smiles and hands. The book bag drops,

                        the vest falls off, she’s on her knees,

                        white rump to the air, trying to keep

                        her tail down. She shakes her head,

                        now fuzzy and furred, nose dark as dirt,

                        everything narrowed. Her ears stretch,

                        eyes widen, gaze becomes fixed,

                        the world slows. She remains still,

                        their laughter like an echo, then lifts

                        herself on spindly legs, fragile bones

                        at risk as she attempts to kick, hooves

                        flailing. She tries to buck and punch,

                        awkward in these limbs. Flanks damp,

                        she spins, all panting ribs, spins again, falls.

                        A girl steps out of the forest, arriving

                        for dinner, late. They glare at her clothes,

                        her hair, her wet, evasive face. She tries

                        to describe how she was a deer. Stop!

                        they cry, stop with your lies, your make-

                        believe tales. Don’t bring this trouble here.