Poem: Deer Scapula

I find a Deer scapula by the lake on the ridge

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Deer Scapula

I find a Deer scapula by the lake on the ridge

once winter has passed. The grip of the season still

has the indents of half moons. Look,

there is no easy way to say, “There is no

going back.” And so forward with the

scapula in hand, I walk to the edge

of the lake. The one where the water snake

sheds her skin. I am not here to teach

a lesson about cycles or snakes, no forgiveness

on this horizon, at least not yet. I am human.

I am a cage blown open by the north

winds. I am the lumbering Bear heard only through

the Birch. There are bones in your feet, remember?

I drop the scapula into the water, the only

grave honoring possible, a peering through, a gift

of spring to the snake. There is nothing

in this world not touched by grief or painted

by the hands of death. A beautiful bone, I am.

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