Sara Johnson

rain scratches at the deer’s coat

as if trying to get inside, washes the antlers

of blood, like a curator cleaning the bones

of a saint in the crypt beneath a church

at the end of a century,

The rain scratches at the deer’s coat

as if trying to get inside, washes the antlers

of blood, like a curator cleaning the bones

of a saint in the crypt beneath a church

at the end of a century,

This must be

what love is:

a pain so radiant

it cuts through all others.