Someone calls Duchess, our fawn Great Dane, back

Across the dusty road: she’s nearly to the lawn

When the Buick hits her, she rolls

And then gaining her legs

runs into the field of goldenrod where my father

Finds her; when he presses

The large folded handkerchief against the wound, it vanishes

Along with his forearm.  She was months dying.

One night returning from my Aunt’s house, we stopped

At a light and watched a procession of cars

Coming down out of the first snow, down

Out of the mountains, returning to Connecticut.  Everywhere

Roped to the hoods and bumpers were dead deer.

The man behind us honked

His horn. My father waved him on. He hit

The horn again. My father got out and spoke

With him in a voice that was frightening

Even for a man with a horn. We left the door open

And the four of us sat there in the dome light

In silence.  Wanting to be fair,

I thought of squatting cavemen, sparks flying

From flints into dry yellow lichen and white smoke

Rising from Ethel Rosenberg’s hair.