A roe deer shot in Slovenia
has a single antler, looks
like it has just walked out
of a fairy tale, marvels
the hunter, marvels
the scientist. Worlds such as this
were not thought possible to exist,
marvels the astronomer.
No water can swell
me or to paste turn me,
soften me, no flame
singes, turns to ash,
swallows me, no grist
makes of me powder.
The astronomer is crying.
The roe deer was old,
fat when the hunter
lit his eye and his rifle
upon his single horn. When my eye
lights on you I
forget the meaning of luz.
Or, when my eye lights on you,
I see only luz.
These two confessions mean
the same thing. In the case
of this very untypical and interesting
buck, both pedicles,
which should be separated
grew up together in one large pedicle.
Antlers, like luz,
are made from bone. The mountains
I visit are made of my sister’s bones
which are much like mine, but for one
difference. Her bone
water could swell,
her bone to paste turned,
her bone truly singed, to ash,
swallowed, turned by grist
to the finest dust. When my luz
is done for it is only you
I trust to see it home.
In this marvel of a world
I will wait for the roe deer.
I will touch its velvet.
I will outlast you.
I will not survive you.
These two confessions mean
the same thing. Roe deer
cast aside their antlers
each autumn, having loved them
through every other season.