Maria Williams

The Doe

a meat truck pushes through it on the road

thick flakes
stick to telephone wires

it’s cold and you and I too

would you like a cup of coffee
milk, you say, a bowl

white doe like glass
white doe among the evergreens
white doe beside the shed beside the house
white doe under the covers, hooves sticking out

we sit sipping beside the window
put dishes in the sink, sigh over the lip of the drain

I am alone, father, I am in run and
quiet, between us

a small chorus of trees

you start crying like a bird
you were crying yesterday

there the common room
this the apostrophe


Maria Williams is the author of A Love Letter to Say There Is No Love and is the founding editor of Shape&Nature Press. Her poems can be found at Bateau, Belleview Literary Review, Boxcar Poetry Review, Sous rature, and other journals and sidewalks. A Pushcart Prize nominee, Maria writes from her home in Greenfield, Massachusetts where she also teaches creative writing and works as a freelance writer and editor.