In the Ardennes forest the hunter
pauses, seeing by glint or trick a crucifix
among the bramble of antlers
just as he draws the bow, ravening
for the twang and thump of arrow
into hart—his wife dead, his wife destroyed
by childbirth—a wounded viciousness
in him to gore tenderness, annihilate
perfection, to bloody a body
on that Good Friday: but now the signal
pierces him, borne to him by his intended
victim. He newly apprehends
his own crucifying hands, brutish heart,
dazedly numbers the points
as the stag spins and springs away, grace
into dappled green.
This poem also appears in the June 2026 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 91, No. 6, page 49). Click here to subscribe to the magazine.
