Corn ghosts linger
over slaughtered stalks
in Elmer’s field, where
thirteen deer, songless, bound
out of the neutral zone
of the land trust.
In foliage-free turns
of the wheel, no antlers
betray prize kill
as it jetés on a bullet line
toward muted woods
and crouching fluorescent terrorists.
You know to deflect
from my car. If I were
my neighbor, you’d go home
a dozen.
Dana Bloomfield is a retired preschool teacher. Her poems have appeared in Baltimore Review, Digges’ Choice, Baltimore Women’s Times, Green Revolution, and the anthology Grease and Tears.
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