Arm draped like a debutante’s
around her stag’s long white neck,
she’s not so school-girl gorgeous after all.
No swift strong hands to brush back
the hair from my eyes or stain my mouth red
with berries. Her eyes are emptied of seeing.
Her bow, an afterthought; her quiver, gone missing;
one of her dogs, very angry.
We circle her for a hint of moon as the day’s last
lean-in light sculpts its quarry: the two of us, bereft
of one another, hearts beating fast to slow
the mute recriminations of marble and fine dust.
Annette Oxindine’s poetry appears or is forthcoming in Shenandoah, Willow Springs, The Midwest Quarterly, and Winter Tangerine Review. She is working on her first collection of poems. She is an associate professor at Wright State University, in Ohio, where she teaches literature.