ROADKILL
She is covered in flies. Her eyes black
as tarmac, open and staring straight
into God’s mouth. There is so little blood,
only a small spot on her cheek like a lover’s kiss
goodbye. I’d like to lift her into the tall grass
clinging to the shoulder, flatten it with her
shape. Set the table for the coyotes
that will inevitably come.
Once, I bowed my head
before a herd of deer––
allowed them their private act
of living, a mouth on every green
limb in the ditch bank as the morning
ached above us. Their aliveness
such a collision with my wanting
to die. A doe looked at me, bright
impossible eyes and I reached out––
one hand on something living,
another on my chest. Two trembling
animals, standing in the switchgrass.
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Image by Michael Paceco from Pexels
Nicole Dalcourt is an award-winning Canadian poet, Best of the Net nominee and author of What Remains, her debut poetry collection and current finalist for the Whistler Independent Book Award. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Queen's Quarterly, Sky Island Journal, Anti-Heroine Chic, and more. Her favourite colour is green.
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