Roadkill

Roadkill (draft #5 on 9/06/23)

The deer's body has become a grotesque statue-
odd angles. Its neck, a twisted piece of scrap metal.
Legs bent pipe-cleaners. Its small painful mouth-
the tongue jutting out like an old plastic tooth brush.

I can't stop thinking about roadkill. How many tires
have heard the last gasp of a peep or bleat?
The last sudden pop of viscera
and what was once a delicately crafted being

is now a smudge, indistinguishable from the lifeless road
that imitates life, that cannot speak. Every morning my commute 

is the tour of an animal graveyard. No headstones in sight.

No mention of all of the life that was snuffed out.

Just carcass after carcass. 

Maybe that's just the way it's supposed to be.

I once witnessed a woman merged with her machine
smash straight through a gaggle of geese, a dozen goslings
lost in an explosion of down. Through the rainfall of feathers- 
her cold gaze on me; the loss of life incomprehensible. 

How many bodies of beings have I observed beaten, battered,
or blurred? Connected things made unconnected?

But, it's why the hiker picks up the fat wriggling earthworm
and digs a small, moist hole, and places him inside.

It's why I would stay with my dog Sport, late into the night

as if a single utterance might come from her as my hand felt her fur.

It's why my rambunctious daughters are made still 

at the site of a box turtle meandering her way across their path,
or when they gaze at grazing deer who are unaware of their presence.
Remember when Balaam's donkey spoke? Read Jubilees 3.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Roadkill (draft #4 on 9/04/23)


The deer's body has become a grotesque statue-
odd angles. Its neck, a twisted piece of scrap metal.
Legs bent pipe-cleaners. Its small painful mouth-
the tongue jutting out like an old plastic tooth brush.

I can't stop thinking about roadkill. How many tires
have heard the last gasp of a peep or bleat?
The last sudden pop of viscera
and what was once a delicately crafted being

is now a smudge, indistinguishable from the lifeless road
that imitates life, that cannot speak. Every morning my commute 

is the tour of an animal graveyard without headstones,

no mention of the life that was snuffed out.

Just carcass after carcass. 

Maybe that's just the way it's supposed to be.

I once witnessed a woman merged with her machine
smash straight through a gaggle of geese, a dozen goslings
lost in an explosion of down. Through the rainfall of feathers- 
her cold gaze on me; the loss of life incomprehensible. 

How many bodies of beings have I observed beaten, battered,
or blurred? Connected things made unconnected?

But, it's why the hiker picks up the fat wriggling earthworm
and digs a small, moist hole, and places him inside.

It's why I would stay with my dog Sport, late into the night

as if a single utterance might come from her as my hand felt her fur.

It's why my rambunctious daughters are made still 

at the site of a box turtle meandering her way across their path,
or when they gaze at grazing deer who are unaware of their presence.
Remember when Balaam's donkey spoke? Read Jubilees 3.

________________________________________________________________________________

Roadkill (draft #3 on 8/11//23)


The deer's body has become a grotesque statue-
odd angles, the neck a twisted piece of scrap metal,
its legs bent pipe-cleaners, the small painful mouth,
the tongue jutting out like an old plastic tooth brush.

I can't stop thinking about roadkill. How many tires
have heard the last gasp of a peep or bleat?
The last pop of all that internal pressure of the viscera
and what was once a delicately crafted being

is now a smudge, indistinguishable from the lifeless road
that imitates life, that cannot speak. Every morning my commute 

is the tour of an animal graveyard with no headstones, 

no crosses, no mention of the life that was snuffed out.

Just carcass after carcass. Maybe that's the way it's supposed to be.

I once witnessed a woman who had merged with her machine
smash straight through a gaggle of geese, a dozen goslings
lost in an explosion of down. Her cold gaze upon me
through the rainfall of feathers, indifferent to the loss of life.

How many bodies of beings have I seen beaten, battered,
and blurred? Things that should be connected- made unconnected.

Bodies arranged, organized, with such precision, like small cities

now in disarray and disorder.

But, it's why the hiker picks up the fat wriggling earthworm
and digs a small, moist hole, and places him inside.

It's why I would stay with my dog Sport, late into the night

as if a single utterance might come from her as my hand felt her fur.

It's why my rambunctious daughters are made still 

at the site of a box turtle meandering her way across their path,
or when they gaze at grazing deer unaware of their presence.
Remember when Balaam's donkey spoke? Read Jubilees 3.

____________________________________________________________

Roadkill (draft #2 on 8/9//23)


The deer's body has become a grotesque statue-
odd angles, the neck a twisted piece of scrap metal,
its legs bent pipe-cleaners, the small painful mouth,
the tongue jutting out like an old plastic tooth brush.

I can't stop thinking about roadkill. How many tires
have heard the last gasp of a peep or bleat?
The last pop of all that internal pressure of the viscera
and what was once a delicately crafted being

is now a smudge, indistinguishable from the lifeless road
that imitates life, that cannot speak. Every morning my commute 

is the tour of an animal graveyard with no headstones, 

no crosses, no mention of the life that was snuffed out.

Just carcass after carcass. Maybe that's the way it's supposed to be.

How many bodies of beings have I seen beaten, battered,
and blurred? Things that should be connected- made unconnected.

I once witnessed a woman who had merged with her machine
smash straight through a gaggle of geese, a dozen goslings
lost in an explosion of feathers. Her cold gaze upon me
through the rainfall of feathers, indifferent to the loss of life.

But, it's why the hiker picks up the fat wriggling earthworm
and digs a small, moist hole, and places him inside.

It's why I would stay with my dog Sport, late into the night

as if a single utterance might come from her as my hand felt her fur.

It's why my rambunctious daughters are made still 

at the site of a box turtle meandering her way across their path,
or when they gaze at grazing deer unaware of their presence.
Even Balaam's donkey spoke. Jubilees 3.

_______________________________________________________________

Roadkill (draft #1 5/23/23)


The deer's body has become a grotesque statue-
odd angles, the neck a twisted piece of scrap metal,
its legs bent pipe-cleaners, the small painful mouth,
the tongue jutting out like an old tooth brush.

I can't stop thinking about roadkill. How many tires
have heard the last gasp of a peep or bleat
the last pop of all that internal pressure of the viscera
and what was once a delicately crafted being
is now a smudge, indistinguishable from the lifeless road
that imitates life, that cannot speak.

Every morning my commute is the tour of an animal graveyard
with no headstones, no crosses, no mention of the life that was snuffed out.
Just carcass after carcass. Maybe that's the way it's supposed to be.

How many bodies of beings I have seen beaten, battered,
and blurred. Things that should be connected- made unconnected.

I once witnessed a woman at one with her four wheels and igniting engine
smash straight through a gaggle of geese, a dozen goslings
lost in an explosion of feathers. Her cold gaze upon me
through the rainfall of feathers indifferent to the loss of life.

But, it's why the hiker picks up the fat wriggling earthworm
and digs a small, moist hole, and places him inside.
It's why my daughters are made still at the site of a box turtle
meandering her way across their path,

Or when they gaze at grazing deer unaware of their presence.
Even Balaam's donkey spoke. Jubilees 3.