and thinks of his mother who nudged his stomach with Her
nose whenever he stumbled finding a four-legged balance.
She smelled of sticky pine.
Her breath was always hot.
She bit ticks off his back.
When he fell through a thicket of brambles
She used her teeth to pluck thorns from his face.
When he fell through the ice She bit the fat
of his neck and pulled him to dry ground.
Today it is fog, tomorrow, another
memory of a mouth mothering
until his antlers drop.
–
Michael Garrigan writes and teaches along the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania. He is the author of the poetry collections River, Amen and Robbing the Pillars. He was an Artist in Residence for The Bob Marshall Wilderness Area.