The beautiful uncut hair of graves

"A child said, what is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands"
-Whitman, Leaves of Grass

Our eyes locked in my rearview mirror
a panicked deer on I-84 West
I saw the truck swerve and lurch behind us
toward the barrier, then toward the other cars
In an act of cowardice, I hit the gas
and escaped over the rise
around the bend
glanced back in the mirror at the empty carseat
and gave thanks

By the next exit I heard sirens, across the barrier
heading east.  From the relentless flow of traffic,
someone else had taken my place as witness

That night I dreamed
I was lying in the cool wet grass
next to that deer, next to death
my arms and back damp with blood
and when I rose
grass sprouted through the pores of my skin
in green patches

And when I rose from my bed
still dreaming
went to the shower
I shaved away the grass from my
legs and armpits
revealing clean bare skin
a temporary appearance of someone untouched by death

And when I rose finally into wakefulness
I scooped up the child at the foot of my bed
and strode out into the yard