Wandering Knife

To red-dead spilling of 

now broken, asphalt, some poor worker will have to 

erase the tragedy of this spot. I will erase the blood of

that deer we hit one winter’s evening, that deer that 

tossed himself into the car and promptly mangled himself

against two tons of steel. I don’t care for how he

stared at us, still after the clean-up like

when that coyote attacked you, ripped your flesh

from bone. Just as unconcerned as testing a knife’s 

edge with seatbelt nylon. How hard you really have to cut

to clear those two inches of black denial, to save someone’s

soul. And I can’t help 

remembering how

when their life was already gone, and we were soaked 

in the juices of animal-existence. Oh, how could we have 

ended his life! We could not save him, so I ended his life

with my cool blade, that horrible blood-wand. And I watch the 

rotor-blades spinning toward the heavens, sucking up 

the lost souls into another mechanical brutality: the 

cars, now airborne. Forever crashing into everything, 

everywhere, at all times. This forever-grief, this forever-blood.

All my forever-thoughts, 

dashed against a darkness bearing rock. To a screech 

so inhuman it can only come from a wounded animal, 

is what I think, this deer is only wounded. He will be fine. 

As we push him from the side of the road to branch-laden 

forest floor to

steady my hand through clawing fingers, slick with blood and grime and tears, 

like you steadied yourself after the blood loss. I can only imagine 

the pain and the suffering.