The thing about the deer strewn across dashed white of the two lane highway is that you don’t really see it.
the deer with its head cocked at a snobbish angle as if to ask, “how do I look for two days dead?”
the deer with tire tracks through its thin neck, bits of entrail spread down the length of highway on display.
The deer with its tongue drooping out the left corner of its mouth to acknowledge the heat of the day, the deer with one eye rolled back and the other bulging, the deer with splintered hooves and a body that will never be whole again.
The deer who wasn’t born fearing cars, but had to be careful walking alone at night.
If only the deer had been more afraid, if only the deer hadn’t gone off on its own, if only the poor, poor dear had been more responsible.
The dear – with her knees parted and tongue drooping out the corner of her mouth, tucked behind a dumpster – is told she should be glad she is not strewn across the highway.
The dear with bits of her body open to air, spread down the length of lacking consent, mouth and finger tracks on her cocked neck. The dotted lines of a ripped zipper.
The poor, poor dear who wasn’t born fearing men, but should have learned to be more careful alone at night.