Wendy Cannella

The Reappearance

Turkeys, a rafter of 42—creeping parade
of purple wattles, rolls of soft tissue
like peonies opening. What do you call being
human and watching through the glass door?
I am there and not there. In this manner,
I have seen a doe suck the last hawthorn leaf
into its elongated mouth, avoiding the spikes.
A family of goldfinches flitting and punching
their beaks at the seeds, working and singing,
maybe shy, maybe resentful of their choices,
who knows. And though you are loath
to believe me, once a mountain lion
sauntered here just after my favorite friend
had died, a Leo, sign of the lion. I heard
a rustling in my bones. Town police
verified the sighting but U.S. Fish and
Wildlife said: no, perhaps a coyote or large dog.
But I knew, the way the rabbit in the thicket
knows the fox is absent today, trotted away
down some other path—I knew
tremors of fear leaving the body, felt
the fang-toothed reappearance of love.

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