My Heavy Daughter Joshua Kryah I cannot be consoled, will not. Dis-consulate, -contented, -couraged, itdoesn't end. The churned up, bitten earth. Two deer in a field in Novemberwaiting, rapt, for spring. You saynothing. Who knows we're here? Every day I drive across the riverthe river looks more the same. My brothercalls, but I don't answer. I'm afraid of drinking. The day dissembles or istaken away, never to come back. Alongthe highway, trash like a winding sheet wears itself out from the wind and rain,without ever leaving or being able to leave. II But it does end, and soon. Though stillshe's, at times, aggrieved. Our troublenow turns more troublingly to us or what we believe we need to betroubled by: children (always the children),sex (always sex), and money (always money). The drinking begins early now. The fieldsare more alone. In the dirty dawn lightthe shivering deer sit still, as if expecting [End Page 43] someone's hand to run down their backs.He's a boy when I imagine what my brothermight have been or what he still might be. In my dream, when he sleeps, I put his armaround my neck to keep him from drowning. III "As if you were gored," is how youexplain it. A softhearted wounding.The day runs before me, on which to lay my trembling hands. There arebottles half empty. On my phone, messagesgather and wait. Our daughter takes me by the wrist and shows me her drawing:a girl feeding two deer from the tearsthat have collected in her palms. Love is a word I need to keep saying."It's as if you didn't believe it," you say.But they do so well, the children, on their own. I hear them upstairs,nudging the world around them. IV Does it matter the river doesn't knowits own name? The way it drags alonglike a man on his belly? Where will I go? What will I say? My brother wantsto know if I'll visit him and his family.But the drinking. And the heaviness of drinking. It's come to this and keeps ongoing. A family, without complaint, butknowing. A commute, an exchange. [End Page 44] The stag herding the doe and its childfrom the road, back into the thicket.Her face, fawn-colored after crying. From the fields more corn, more waste.But I like it. Our foundering, our waste. V I race the car trying to pass mein the passing lane. The horse track gleamsin the morning light. Our daughter leaves for school without saying goodbye. "That,"you tell me, "means she's fine." To bear it allthe day through, to make it, always, unavoidably, a part of you. It's whatwe've hoped for. The deerskin glovesat the museum are folded over each other as if in apology for what's been done to them.Five of the seven bottles on the bar are empty,have been for weeks. Outside, the street is stained with the night before. Because talked about,the day is less heavy and easier to carry. VI Along the road, pear trees.Smell of sweat, semen. "It smells,"our daughter says, "like meat." Suddenly it's spring. Then it's not. "What happenedto the trees?" And the deer? They are handledbut not made by us. "Each belongs to the other," you say, "just so." And my brother?He's been without a job for almost a year.The drinking has gone out of me, the shadow [End Page 45] moved, for now, away from my mouth.You wonder if there's something I'm nottelling you. But it's right there. Once across the river, the smoke of some great offeringhangs over a field or they're burning it. VII Against the rain, some white. The jawof a deer we found crossing the railroad trackslast spring. "Why do we keep it?" The teeth bared as if weeping. I like it. Morningagain...