​Goodbye, Madison

by Lauren Gordon

​Last suburban blink through film
between our lashes, Spring’s grit:

A buffalo and a donkey share pasture
on the farm down the road. They eat

together, away from the Shetlands
who are frozen against the peeling barn.

Glassy water invades the crop field;
winter’s departure has been slow this year.

A dull mallard on one leg is asleep on ice
in a shallow pond, whose finger curves

to touch muted grass. A pair of running shoes
with orange soles abandoned on the corner

reappear with the thaw. A green pleather recliner
hugs the curb and balks in the wind.

Up the street, a man holds the head of a deer
by the antlers, stuffs it into the back of his truck

when we drive past. The break in stasis makes the deer
look alive; its wild breath steaming the sky, its hoofs a-clatter.