Evan Hansen has poems recently published in Juked, the Portland Review, the South Carolina Review, the Southeast Review, and Thumbnail. He lives in Portland, Oregon.
How appropriate, driving back to Quiet Cove
through fields of alfalfa and corn, to stop
for a nervous young buck in the roadantlers
still a single story, dappled flanks bronze
with sunfall, eyes black, body trembling.
The Civic shakes as I wave out the window,
Go on, and he bounds into high stalks
a doe suddenly leaping after him into rocking
green, yellow. I wish you were here, Sarah,
but this dusk you're an idea traveling to Belize
as hawks and turkey vultures stitch this sky
with dark wings and the earth is bone-dry
the dumb corn, tall and unsteady. I've lost
something that wanted to get lost. Sometimes,
I lift empty chairs over my head like a strong man.