Chickamauga Battlefield

CHICKAMAUGA BATTLEFIELD

Saturday night the doe brought her fawn, two 

days old at most, across the pine woods

to graze beneath the apple tree. 

He tottered like a spotted whisper, tried

his tongue to June’s first, small windfall, 

then caught me pigeon-toeing for a better

look. Spooked, the doe ran right, disappearing 

through a gap in the blackberry 

hedge. The fawn hesitated, then left. 

Sunday after church we found him 

in the middle of the field, not yet stiff 

but breath stilled. No bite marks,

just lost, presumably, then heat stroke. 

We told Emmie he was sleeping, 

ushered her inside for a nap 

while I buried him beneath the oak tree

with the rest of the napping 

contingent there—a pair of baby bunnies, 

a bluebird, a bat, thousands of cicada 

corpse—and two small flowers 

from the bed Emmie planted in April

and we’ve kept alive by water bills

and will. Dirt tamped, I biked

the battlefield to clear my head,

rubber tread rolling over the dead

fields split only by a jagged green vein

signaling the creek where the Confederates—

or was it the Union?—crossed.

This isn’t a poem about war,

the wild, death, loss of innocence, or even 

resurrection, though who am I 

to say? Maybe that’s why you’re here. 

I don’t quite know what to make 

of this, though somehow—increasingly

clear amidst the confusion—

we're inextricably involved.