One Lame Deer

Those of us who are lame know
It’s not kind to use the word,
Not since it’s not true, but since

Its truth was used as a slur,
And once it’s a slur, a name
Stays more of a slur than truth.

But this deer is lame. It halts
And limps with its group. It lags
But keeps up as best it can.

If there were wolves here these days,
It would hold a short-term lease
On life for sure. There are trucks,

And cars, and the rare big cat.
There are those who wait for death
To find its own way, then eat.

But the lame deer’s not dead yet.
Some past lives must have lived on
So the urge past pain passed on.

How is it a truth, to be
Too hurt to walk well, but walk?
It’s a deer. It has no names.