Skip to main content

Amy Holman

My mother made herself the deer with a broken leg 

We saw a deer through the pane into someone else’s yard.
The leg moved like a tube sock pinned to the hip 
and half filled with sticks. I did not like to see it suffer,

either. She was upset —my mother —that no one helped 
the doe. Was it a mother, too? As if we were the first
to observe the scene. We weren’t. All had been told to

let her be. My mother had suffered a destruction 
of the self, a divorce, and no one cared. That wasn’t true. 
We were grown, on our own. I agree it was hard. Yet 

in those moments of a cold November day, we watched 
a doe, disabled and enduring, walk across a yard and eat 
a hedge. I wish she could have seen it like that.

Amy Holman is the author of the collection, Wrens Fly Through This Opened Window (Somondoco Press, 2010) and four chapbooks, including the prizewinning Wait for Me, I’m Gone (Dream Horse Press, 2005). Recent poems have been in or accepted by Blueline, concis, Gargoyle, The Westchester Review, and Like Light anthology of Bright Hill Press. She is a literary consultant and teaches poetry and publishing workshops. 

Comments

  1. god damn!! hat is powerful and amazing poetry! I am knocked over by its honesty

    ReplyDelete
  2. Such a stunning and sensitive poem.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Love that poem. I have seen a baby deer in our yard that was stuck between two fences. This poem captures that feeling of helplessness and how it brings up other feelings about life.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Love this poem. Been a while since I've seen Amy Holman's work, so I'm glad to catch up here.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Ed Dorn's # 22 From Twenty-four Love Poems

                                               from Jacket The strengthy message here in #22 of 24 Love Songs can be summed up in two lines: ['There is/no sense to beauty. . .' and '. . .How/ the world is shit/ and I mean all of it] What I also like about this brief poem is the interplay between the title of the book and the subject of the poems (love/anti-love (which is not hate)): it's all a mass of contradictions, like love. And I have to say that the shorter poems of the Love Songs and the last book he wrote before dying (Chemo Sábe) seem to me much better and more memorable than the Slinger/Gunslinger poems. These (generally) later poems probably attempt less stylistically, but are more sure-handed, hacked from a soap bar, maybe. Easy to use, but disa...

Weldon Kees

Along with my Jack Gilbert kick, I've been reading the poems of Weldon Kees as well as the secondary material (very little of which seems to be available in book form), which is too bad. There's a pretty good book called Weldon Kees and the Mid-Century Generation: Letters from 1935 to 1955 , which is structured in such a way that it seems more like a biography in letters. Normally, a writer's letters are collected and footnotes are rare except to sometimes identify confusing timelines. Robert Knoll includes more narrative about Kees than it does letters. I think otherwise it might not have made a full book, otherwise.Very interesting anyway. Kees seemed poised for mainstream uber-success at 41 years old when he simply disappeared.  His car, with the keys still in it, was found near the Golden Gate bridge, but with  no trace of whether he committed suicide or simply ran off to Mexico, as he talked of frequently in his last years.  James Reidel's book Vanished Act: t...

Karl Koweski

retaliation it was two weeks after you returned from rehab, dad I found the first vodka bottle, a Smirnoff pint, stashed beneath the driver's seat of your Ford. I propped the empty on the dashboard like a bobble-head. I didn't tell you this then, but... going into my room and leaving my dog-eared copies of Penthouse on my pillow next to the Vaseline... that was a pretty good comeback. Karl Koweski is a displaced Region Day now living in a valley in rural Alabama. His latest collection of poetry from Roadside Press "Abandoned By All Things" is out now.