I understand why white people want to be Indian. They think we wield spiritual powers that don't exist anywhere else. That's not true, of course. Our preachers and priests aren't more gifted than any others. But if I did carry special powers then I'd pull my car over to the side of this highway, kneel next to that deer dead in the ditch, and pray until all of its shattered and separate pieces knit themselves back together. Yes, I'd use my newly acquired power to save that deer. I don't know why this particular deer has caused me to wish that I could make magic from my empathy. But, look, this poem just made that deer rise from the dirt. It trembles and trembles, stunned by its rebirth. I lean close to its ear and whisper, "Go tell other deer that I'm here. Tell them not to fear me. Tell them to bring me their dead. But not too many. Every poet has limits. Every poet is arrogant but I know this poem can't resurrect every deer. It can only heal three or four at the most. But please carry your dead to me and I'll write today and tonight and bring a few broken things back to life."
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In love with this! Beautiful and profound piece! Plus I have a feeling there's more to this... that we are not just talking about deer!
Great poem on the magic of words and the power they have. Sherman, you already resurrected that deer, perhaps in another dimension, another plane, but you did it. Very cool indeed.