Will Carpenter
We rode past on our bikes for a week
only slowing, as though we had somewhere
else to go, gawking
as the yearling deer’s lungs crusted
and its ribs bleached brilliant, like sun-
baked dog shit or an OxiCleaned T-shirt.
Usually, roadkills were windshield-
figments. On the third day
its nose melted off. The other boys
stopped slowing after that, but I circled back
secretly, cheeks flushed
with something like shame
or admiration for the blush
of crusted blood on the grass.
I think it was the smell
that drew me, nostrils molded
to the sweet reek of black
bacterial blooms, rancid
twinge of burgeoning life.
I wondered if Hell was in them,
but the deer, their host, seemed
only a little tired, tongue dry
and hamstrings drooping
from femurs. It kept coming back
to me in crows and vultures, thrill
of rot or metamorphosis.
My palms sweat and I imagine
pecking at its carrion,
roadside, like fast food.