Poetry

White Fur

By

In the town of my childhood, little of note ever happened
so when the albino deer was found drowned in the slough
 
having been driven onto the punky ice by dogs,
the game warden brought the dead beast to the school.
 
I might have been seven or maybe six years old.
I suppose we were made to line up
 
since that is how we were moved from place to place
and were directed out the industrial doors
 
to admire the animal sprawled in the back of a truck.
We gathered around it, its whiteness a world
 
bled of distinction, its eyes pink and drying
in the prairie air. We were told we could touch it
 
and these many years since that March day, I can still
see my hand, pink and small, buried into the white fur
 
of the buck's neck, crackling with static
and coming to life with the electric surge
 
that animates all things. Later, the buck
would be mounted and placed in a glass case in the bank,
 
which is where the town kept things that were precious.
Behind it, the art teacher rendered the bluffs in oils
 
with the fussy hand of a miniaturist, and the buck
remains there today, in perpetual imitation of itself.

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