road tolls
god has time
& god has large hands. wide palms to steer vehicles
of ocean & sky into motion; mighty, opposable
thumbs to forge volcano & glacier; eons to gear up
the workings of forests. but not for wee things. not for
fleeting things: wing, thorax beak & muzzle rendered
meaningless by windscreen bumper, blade, metal
fender. not for what we drive through—or the cost.
that day, a fawn flew out like a missile from a blind
bend of spruce & thumped into the car’s front
bumper with a bang as almighty as a cannon.
there’s no time.
he slams on the brakes— our hands & knees
shake & everything empties into disconnected
syncopation of space. silence as dense as the sea
floods in. we drain out the doors & dribble back
around the bend, dreading the mess of shattered hoof
& mangled horn—but the mystery deer disappeared.
the only sign left behind as proof of life’s judas kiss
is a thumb-sized chunk of hide snagged in the shattered
grille, golden bristles glistening with colours of the fall.
and every time
I drive, I’m haunted by reflections of night eyes
on the verge of crossing over. by evidence that they
tried: road smears like rust & red wine, racoons
on gravel shoulders un- recognizable as hats, someone’s
pet cat, furred pizza on the median—a flattened fox.
and for no-longer-sapiens, white plywood crosses spattered
with red blooms. but god never seems to change tack. long
bitumen miles mark the abecedary of big & tiny beings
interrupted—fearful, fine bodies opposing vehicles
of our empires, token humans hazardously counter-
balanced, hands steering in slow motion
out of time.