A Man Remarks on the Gazelle’s Resilience

Julie DeBoer

The buoyancy with which she survives
the predator. How her body must have
been made for enduring this kind of

carnivore. Breath clawing at a throat
wired shut. Slow metal scrape of a dead
bolt, jaws tightening on torso until she’s
a fish with paper will.

I grow daffodils now, try to reimagine
night and pretend that doors are
simple. Untangle the fingers from my

spine. In therapy, I spend a year
convincing a sparrow it is safe to eat
from my hand. That what looks like food
is food.

It’s 1:02 a.m.
The color of the ceiling is white.
This darkness has no teeth.