(February/'47 / Connecticut, USA)


I didn't look at the carcass
stretched on the road by my gate
any more than I had to to know
the open-mouthed head and neck
twisted back was muntjac.

I wrapped myself up in the word,
a muffler against the cold,
and keeping close to the kerb
rode past on my bike.

I had bread to buy — the small browns
can run out unpredictably —
no time to see what we'd done
or even to imagine the damage,
bone spike slicing through muscle,
belly a staved in barrel
spilling out stuff.

And while I was gone, someone —
from pity or driven to it
by the hold-up to the traffic or knowing
his venison — got a grip
on its hooves, I suppose, and removed it

along with my chance to do
as I meant to, to use my eyes.

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Comments (1)

Hi Lawrence, Excellent poem, and very true. People can be cruel and don't care what cost one has to pay. Take care, keep up the wonderful poetry.