White Deer
by Lynn Domina
Not the white of ice-blue glaciers
calving, nor the white of an old man’s beard
flecked with gray and one or two black hairs,
nor the hazy white we attribute
to spirits, even those of us who deny
feeling haunted. Nothing
about these deer is translucent, these deer
who are not the white
of dandelion fluff, or canine or human
teeth, nor the white of little moons
anchoring your fingernails. Whiter than the white
of a cumulus cloud
reflecting noon sun,
if a cloud could be
solid, firm, a haunch moving
under its own volition. Their coats
not fur but pelt, heavy, tight, certain,
so bright they glow
as if lit
from within.
I have never seen
a white deer, just photographs
and one quiet video,
though I drive around the island,
neighborhoods where they are said to eat
rhododendrons and dogwood just like their tan
cousins, through wooded subdivisions looking,
looking. You are probably right when you say
a single vision, an ordinary animal,
its increasingly common
genetic variation, will change
nothing about my life, that a vision’s
sole meaning is meaning
I’ve created, and you’re probably right
that whatever I’m seeking already
lies within, but isn’t it just possible
that a white flash leaping
over fallen oaks will illuminate
the one shadow I can’t see past today?
Lynn Domina is the author of two collections of poetry, Corporal Works and Framed in Silence, and the editor of a collection of essays, Poets on the Psalms, and several other books. She currently serves as Head of the English Department at Northern Michigan University and as Creative Writing Editor of The Other Journal.
