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.