Poems by Jennifer Phillips

Cohabiting

by Jennifer Phillips

From Canary Winter 2023-24

Jennifer lives on the ridge of a terminal moraine, alongside a field and Audubon preserve and a salt marsh overlooking a deep-cut inlet along the Atlantic shore.

I never catch him in his night nest
in the crook of my chimney, a surprising spot
for a young buck to choose to rest,

but a leeward and secluded lair
where he left some of his stiff auburn hairs
there among the crumpled iris spears.

I glimpse him before dawn as he browses
the gardens down our road , lipping frowsy
remains of lilies and hostas, after-season roses.

Or braced in the field's center like a bronze,
only his ears swiveling to sense least stirrings
across milkweeds and seedling firs and sumacs. Once,

I saw him, barely antlered, with his twin.
Now the neighborhood's too tight for the two of them
armed and grown, and he forages alone.

When I wake in my own silence in wee hours
I sense the warm heave of him against the east wall of my house
safer here than he knows. In November's driven showers

I picture the steam lifting from his flanks
curled in the respite of my Northeast-facing fence.
Cautioned by curious Psyche with scorching lamp,

who banished from her bed the one she loved.
I never turn the porch light on to see
my welcome guest who'd vanish, seeing me.