What We Need To Remember
Underneath a sheen of dust
rests her husband's razor,
stubble still clinging to the blade –
the last of him,
enough to share morning with,
then shut the door.
I found them,
two bucks that had rutted themselves to death
beside Sycamore Creek,
tangled the fourteen points between them
till neither could release the fight.
Steam still rose from their bodies
as the silence of dead leaves fell over them,
masking their memories gouged into earth.
I left them there,
not wanting to carry their desperation
in the broken tips,
swallow the exhaustion
vised into flesh,
disturb the shroud layering itself over
a passing of grace.