Meeting Place

My brother told me once, as he cut
the venison from the deer he’d shot
that week, that the first time
he shot one, he cried. He cried
because he’d removed something
beautiful from the world.

Yesterday, a deer swept across
the road in front of my car, my lights
on his hide making her look
like a ghost that I could drive
into like a fog and she’d burst
like swiped candle smoke.

My wife hit a deer on the highway
and came home well but trembling.
The car had a dent and deer flesh
in the grill. She felt lucky and guilty.
She felt her mortality like an ache
and worried helplessly about the deer.

I imagine the hunter crying with one
knee in the leaves, leaning on the gun
he’s holding in his gloved hand,
saying a prayer that isn’t asking forgiveness,
isn’t blessing the hot bleeding body,
but rather a prayer that comes easily

from the place where two beautiful
bodies have come together and one
of them stands, one of them falls;
one of them dies and one of them
kneels at the meeting place where
there’s one living heart still meeting.