Because the day changed you. Because your sister just left
one day and made you the one who. Because you forget
most of it, the parts you remember make up your life.
Because I was biking behind the truck when I saw those deer
spook and run the long hypotenuse between the road
and the houses and back, up and back, ever faster.
Because I thought they were beautiful racing apart,
blending back together, I wrote the day down.
Because I don’t believe in mystery, not ever, back
behind the iris where the nerve becomes the mind
and makes the meat of me forearm and finger, from a zip
in the circuitry. Because I understood what I was doing.
I remember carrying my children up to their beds,
and the feel of their bodies slumped against me.
Because I’ve sat with each of them in such a dark
I could barely make out the lines of their foreheads or chins
or grasp how the artist can locate the edge and stop.
And if you move out beyond that? Well. I would like to learn
to grow content. I would like to think love can pull the best
out of us, like thread, turn your head or catch your eye
with a glossy blue ribbon whose only use is to be beautiful.

Photo by cisc1970

Susan Hutton

Susan Hutton's book On the Vanishing of Large Creatures won Ploughshares’ John C. Zacharis First Book Award.Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Poetry, North American Review, FIELD, Bear Review, and other magazines.

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