Mt Olivet

Mount Olivet
by Iris Moulton

Salt Lake City cemeteries
are crowded with deer. They come, wild
at first, to eat
the wreaths off our graves. I watch
like a safari from the safety of my car
as a fawn suckles. I have never seen this
in person before. With bulged, rodent eyes
the mother observes me. They move as a swarm, in
silent consensus.

I come to read and write. I walk
the marble aisles discerning the math
of tragedy; who was too young to go, husbands
who passed days after wives— perhaps clutching a tincan
dinner, longing.

Twice I have seen the proprietor bale hay
before a herd. Other times I imagine they just wait for us:
our green tents and clicking shoes, hollowed with hope that
our flowers are real.