_ Cervical being
of the neck (cervix) and not
of the deer (cervus), though
_ _ one might bend hers grace-
ful as a willow branch
_ _ when she drinks from the river.
I would only wrap my hands
_ _ around the neck of that deer
if she asked it of me, and even
_ _ then I would use only the
most necessary strength,
_ _ watching for the flutter of her
lashes, her eyes wide and
_ _ flickering toward
the soft white spots
_ _ dappling the sky. Is that
nostalgia parting her mouth—
_ _ it is nostalgia, yes,
I’m sure of it, but
_ _ for what? Air? The river?
It doesn’t matter. I would watch her
_ _ face for fear like a predator
watching as her cubs starve,
_ _ my hands gentle as she’d
allow me to be. One
_ _ pressing down around
the throat, one aligning
_ _ itself with
the spine. We both came
_ _ to the water to be found
by the water. Here, joy
_ _ is the only hunter
and pleasure the butcher-
_ _ ed meat, though it runs
through the trees before it’s caught
_ _ by our snared bodies,
all of us hungry, and
_ _ limping from older wounds.

Jaz Sufi is a mixed-race Iranian-American poet and arts educator. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in PANK, AGNI, Birdfeast, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. A Kundiman Fellow and National Poetry Slam finalist, she is an MFA candidate and Goldwater Fellow at New York University. (updated 4/2020)