IMPOSSIBLE DEER

When I visit Virginia in winter,Mom says she’s been seeing printson our snow-covered deck., she tells me. I laugh.But sheare, not my English wordsfor them. And I don’t knowhow to translate. I’m frustratednow—at how often our conversationsgo like this: faltering, me punishingher with silence for not understanding.How my first instinct towardsmy mother is never kindness.Who am I to tell her what is possible?Just this morning looking outfrom the deck, I saw the fireof eight cardinals burningin our honeysuckle. An omen.Maybe that was my mother too.One landed on the snow brightas a radish, as the pendantmy mother gifted that I refuseto wear—too showy, too loud.My mother has already donethe impossible, making it here.What have I done? I want to believethat I can be someone else. A betterdaughter. , I’ll tell everyone.They leap into flight on coldnights and return as red-featheredbirds, spilling across the sky.