Crossing Paths
I know what I was doing
driving down my mountain to work
worried about the deadline.
But what were you doing
when you leapt through the manzanita?
Had something startled you?
the scent of a mountain lion?
the sound of a chain saw?
a rutting stag?
What made our paths cross on the road?
my brakes screeching
a thud
your graceful body arching through the air
into a ditch on the other side.
Kneeling beside you, I watch you struggle to rise
only to collapse again,
thrashing, bewildered in pain.
Panicked, I call 911
Explain the crash, the suffering and plead:
Bring a gun. I don’t have a gun!
I tell you the operator says someone will come soon
but your eyes tell me it’s no use.
Your head falls onto the grass in resignation.
Accusation, pleading, light… all fade from your gaze
before the kind man with the gun arrives
too late
At the body shop
the headlight of my car dangles like an eyeball knocked from its socket.
The insurance agent on the line confirms: No one was hurt.
Hurt? I answer. The deer died.
Your eyes have not left me.
I drove today where our paths crossed ten years ago
slower, paying attention.
previously published by Caesura
Ruth Mota lives and writes in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California, but descends to lead poetry circles to veterans and to men incarcerated in a nearby jail. Although she studied English at Oberlin College, her advanced degree is in Public Health and most of her published writing relates to her work as an international HIV/AIDS trainer. Her published poems are about nature or reflect her experiences living and working in Brazil and Africa.
I know what I was doing
driving down my mountain to work
worried about the deadline.
But what were you doing
when you leapt through the manzanita?
Had something startled you?
the scent of a mountain lion?
the sound of a chain saw?
a rutting stag?
What made our paths cross on the road?
my brakes screeching
a thud
your graceful body arching through the air
into a ditch on the other side.
Kneeling beside you, I watch you struggle to rise
only to collapse again,
thrashing, bewildered in pain.
Panicked, I call 911
Explain the crash, the suffering and plead:
Bring a gun. I don’t have a gun!
I tell you the operator says someone will come soon
but your eyes tell me it’s no use.
Your head falls onto the grass in resignation.
Accusation, pleading, light… all fade from your gaze
before the kind man with the gun arrives
too late
At the body shop
the headlight of my car dangles like an eyeball knocked from its socket.
The insurance agent on the line confirms: No one was hurt.
Hurt? I answer. The deer died.
Your eyes have not left me.
I drove today where our paths crossed ten years ago
slower, paying attention.
previously published by Caesura
Ruth Mota lives and writes in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California, but descends to lead poetry circles to veterans and to men incarcerated in a nearby jail. Although she studied English at Oberlin College, her advanced degree is in Public Health and most of her published writing relates to her work as an international HIV/AIDS trainer. Her published poems are about nature or reflect her experiences living and working in Brazil and Africa.