Because, maybe, there was no stag& the only curse was anger.Blame desire—to desecrate, destroy,Turn from prayer. What if Julian knew,As we all know, when we test disaster,& venture toward the last ledge,Some lonely cherubim pullingUs back, except we don’t breathe& instead shatter our histories;What if there were no stag & onlyThe pause after, where escapingYesterday becomes folly& recovery demands invention—Shahid has lived in cities of menWho know what it means to failTo turn away. A man can walkUntil all his steps become sorrow,& maybe others will name it pilgrimage,& over two fingers of rum, maybeThey’ll tell this story of the stagWhose warning was ignored, & theyWill never say it was a collie or houndOr small terrier that barked no,Because then we’d know the lieOf warning, know that a dog wouldLeap before a blade to save the lastBit of goodness we have, & so it isA stag we hear of, instead of the horrorOf a man who should have paused.& haven’t we all been that man? ImaginingWe might have listened if the voiceWarning was more eloquent or a barkOr at least the stag we wish warnedHim? They say, the woman who tookHis hand knew him better than the bloodThat covered them, & years later, no oneWill say she was wrong, even then,Knowing that when they left that disaster,He was hoping to assemble what he’d broken,The very best way he knew.