Peter Douglas


Thanksgiving eve, so the leaves were yellow like Sierra Nevada
and blew about like the breath and dead cells of a dry whistle
when I came to the intersection of my road and the main,
heading out to go see the night.  There stood a doe,
chalking a hoof on the asphalt, her hide green under my brights,
her tail loud, but in that small way that deer have about them.

I honked, and it began to sprint across the farther lane,
gathering itself slowly at first, but then like an old recreational plane
my grandfather used to use for puddle hopping
and postwar jaunts from state to united state, it found its strength,
snapping gravity like a rubber band -- neither of us saw the car,
and a black Mercedes is almost a beautiful thing, almost lost in the midnight foliage.

A gunshot is not a beautiful thing -- I took one last look.
Her tail twitched, heavy, like a metronome.
Roy Orbison and the Traveling Wilburys had been jacked pretty loud,
when I pulled over, and I couldnít play it like that until much later,
when I had seen the night and was in it,
when I had forgotten the deer and was drunk.

Peter Douglas
Date of Birth: December 12, 1978
Location: Washington, DC
Occupation: Actor
Publications: G.W. Review, The Hollins Critic, The Mindís Eye, Paperplates, Rattapallax, Red Booth Review, Spank Thru, Writerís Journal, Stirring V3:E3, V3:E5, V3:E6, V3:E11, V3:E12

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