The splattered red was sprayed onto the concrete, dragged a few feet, then twirled through an intricate death-dance. At the end of the line lay the deer. Legs akimbo, as if it’s partner dropped him in the middle of a do-si-do: the partner change came too quick, and death grabbed a little too hard. The deer’s ribcage was crushed as it was flung from the path of the car, as it was flung from Life. Now the broken skin-sack was left to dry and turn to dust on the side of the highway.
It was filled with red, red that had turned brown and been burnt onto the pavement. More red trickled out of a soft muzzle, speckled fawn skin torn and smeared against the hard ground. I imagined I could see God’s thumbprint in the smudge-that-was-once-a-deer, squished like raspberry jelly on the 12-AB exit ramp of I-15; collapsed like rising dough that’s been punched, collapsed like a telescope slammed between two palms. Swollen and bloated, left on the side of the road.
Hello. You may remember me from the batch of 1997’ers, smack in the middle of July. I just had a quick question, if you’ve got the time:
the gal who cried at the sight of that dead deer