Where I see a doe
my friend sees an asshole. She points and spits
there! towards a tree in someone’s garden.
It’s just a black-tailed deer nibbling serenely
on a tender bay laurel leaf—her mossy mouth,
her alert ears, her dewy doe-y eyes
turned towards us. My friend goes on
about the assholes who keep eluding fences
to chew her tended ceanothus and day lilies.
She asks me if I know anyone with a rifle
and is only half-joking. There’s no telling who
will see ugliness where you see beauty,
even someone who agrees with you
about almost everything—where to buy bagels,
when to protest war, the necessity of art,
the stupidity of grown children who won’t
consult their mothers—all topics we’ve covered
in the years of walks that brought us to this deer.
My friend sees an enemy destroying someone’s garden.
I, who can’t keep a plant alive, see an emissary
from the garden humans are destroying—
how it considers me with those warm, wary eyes,
going about its business in spite of our appetites
as we go about our business in spite of theirs.
there! towards a tree in someone’s garden.
It’s just a black-tailed deer nibbling serenely
on a tender bay laurel leaf—her mossy mouth,
her alert ears, her dewy doe-y eyes
turned towards us. My friend goes on
about the assholes who keep eluding fences
to chew her tended ceanothus and day lilies.
She asks me if I know anyone with a rifle
and is only half-joking. There’s no telling who
will see ugliness where you see beauty,
even someone who agrees with you
about almost everything—where to buy bagels,
when to protest war, the necessity of art,
the stupidity of grown children who won’t
consult their mothers—all topics we’ve covered
in the years of walks that brought us to this deer.
My friend sees an enemy destroying someone’s garden.
I, who can’t keep a plant alive, see an emissary
from the garden humans are destroying—
how it considers me with those warm, wary eyes,
going about its business in spite of our appetites
as we go about our business in spite of theirs.
Fall 2026
Susan Cohen’s third book of poems is Democracy of Fire (Broadstone; 2022). Her poetry has
appeared in 32 Poems, Alaska Quarterly Review, Prairie Schooner, Rattle, Rhino, and Southern
Review. Honors include the Red Wheelbarrow Prize judged by Mark Doty, the Terrain Annual
Poetry Prize judged by Arthur Sze, and a Pushcart Anthology Special Mention. She lives in
California.
appeared in 32 Poems, Alaska Quarterly Review, Prairie Schooner, Rattle, Rhino, and Southern
Review. Honors include the Red Wheelbarrow Prize judged by Mark Doty, the Terrain Annual
Poetry Prize judged by Arthur Sze, and a Pushcart Anthology Special Mention. She lives in
California.
Art: L. I. Henley
“Scorpio Girl: After Rebecca Hart Olander's Singing from the Deep End,” 2026
Colored pencil, acrylic, notebook paper, found The Jesus and Mary Chain album art
“Scorpio Girl: After Rebecca Hart Olander's Singing from the Deep End,” 2026
Colored pencil, acrylic, notebook paper, found The Jesus and Mary Chain album art