The Antlered Woman Responds
After Mark Doty
On misty-gray, not-dark, not-light days
I feel bone sprout from my temples.
I try to catch a glimpse in store windows.
I should keep my eyes on the ground
instead of stepping out of forwardness.
But my allegiance is not to permanent forms.
Plain clothes hide hooves and haunches,
the elongated grammar of muscle,
and me without a trench coat.
I am the respiration of the grass
and my animal alphabet
fails on a regular basis.
Years from now on a tonal night
my feet will evaporate into cloud
and my antlers will twine with stardust.
For now I am less anatomy
than a storm, a glittering, gathering mass,
an antlered woman dodging traffic.
Published by Sugar House Review, issue 1, December
Reprinted in The Moment of Change (anthology of feminist speculative poetry) May 2012