By Mia Costales
I saw you for a split-second on the side of the 101,
a blur of soft doe fur and bloodied innards trailing behind you.
What beauty you possessed, your body laid out with such stillness.
I wondered if your woodland friends were waiting for you on the other side of the road,
puzzled as to why you hadn’t come home yet.
Watching the clock tick on and on pensively,
praying to a god with ornate antlers and a speckled coat.
The hot summer sun shone down on your blood,
turning it black as the asphalt beneath it.
What cruelty that you know what cold metal and plastic feels like,
that such a foreign object would be the last thing you touched.
I thought of the car that couldn’t change lanes quick enough,
forced to paint the road behind them with red streaks of you.
How could such a gentle creature know such pain?
I wished to turn back around,
to move you off of the highway shoulder to a place more peaceful.
I yearned to cradle you in my arms and nuzzle my face
in the velvety spot between your neck and ear.
I would put you to rest in a bed of red flowers
and weep over your stiff figure, mourning the forest’s loss.