We were on the phone late one night
when you saw her in your yard.  

How calmly you spoke — Hello there —
whispered close to my ear.

I heard the rustle of your clothes become muted.
I heard you become aware of your breathing.

I was quiet too, my breath stuck on the exhale
as stillness filled my darkened room.

In my mind’s eye, you walked in the darkness,
hand outstretched, toward the doe in your garden.

I, too, was a doe. You’d used the same careful
lilting tone when you first spotted me,

walking slowly up with your hand reaching out,
so I could lick salt from your palm.

Gail Nezvigin is a visual artist who lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. She explores emotionally complex narratives, both in visual art and in writing. Her poetry has previously been featured in Gramercy Review and the Stanford Continuing Studies Writers Spotlight.

Appears In

Cagibi Issue 26