I move further from cities,
pass open fields,
smell hay and wildflowers.
My hair strikes my face and flutters.
On this empty stretch of 101
a frail shape,
insignificant in the distance,
blocks the road.
I watch your graceful,
already lifeless body
approach
on the narrow highway;
start looking for the shoulder,
beg my boyfriend to swerve.
Pull over.
Stop.
A deer, Mike—
The undercarriage rattles like an earthquake.
You hit the front fender
and your broad downy neck shatters.
I feel your soul roar beneath me.
Your hooves splay unresponsive.
The car leaves a rose petal trail of blood behind as we drive on.
I sit silent for miles, stiffened hand to my lips,
praying to a god I don’t believe in.
I try to find forgiveness
for disturbing you
in your delicate afterlife.
I spend the rest of the drive trying
to hold my mortality
within my sickened stomach.
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