Deer Hit

    You're seventeen and tunnel-vision drunk，

    swerving your father's Fairlane wagon home

    at 3：00 a.m. Two-lane road， all curves

    and dips——dark woods， a stream， a patchy acre

    of teazle and grass. You don't see the deer

    till they turn their heads——road full of eyeballs，

    small moons glowing. You crank the wheel，

    stamp both feet on the brake， skid and jolt

    into the ditch. Glitter and crunch of broken glass

    in your lap， deer hair drifting like dust. Your chin

    and shirt are soaked——one eye half-obscured

    by the cocked bridge of your nose. The car

    still running， its lights angled up at the trees.

    You get out. The deer lies on its side.

    A doe， spinning itself around

    in a frantic circle， front legs scrambling，

    back legs paralyzed， dead. Making a sound——

    again and again this terrible bleat.

    You watch for a while. It tires， lies still.

    And here's what you do： pick the deer up

    like a bride. Wrestle it into the back of the car——

    the seat folded down. Somehow， you steer

    the wagon out of the ditch and head home，

    night rushing in through the broken window，

    headlight dangling， side-mirror gone.

    Your nose throbs， something stabs

    in your side. The deer breathing behind you，

    shallow and fast. A stoplight， you're almost home

    and the deer scrambles to life， its long head

    appears like a ghost in the rearview mirror

    and bites you， its teeth clamp down on your shoulder

    and maybe you scream， you struggle and flail

    till the deer， exhausted， lets go and lies down.

    2

    Your father's waiting up， watching tv.

    He's had a few drinks and he's angry.

    Christ， he says， when you let yourself in.

    It's Night of the Living Dead. You tell him

    some of what happened： the dark road，

    the deer you couldn't avoid. Outside， he circles

    the car. Jesus， he says. A long silence.

    Son of a bitch， looking in. He opens the tailgate，

    drags the quivering deer out by a leg.

    What can you tell him——you weren't thinking，

    you'd injured your head？ You wanted to fix

    what you'd broken——restore the beautiful body，

    color of wet straw， color of oak leaves in winter？

    The deer shudders and bleats in the driveway.

    Your father walks to the toolshed，

    comes back lugging a concrete block.

    Some things stay with you. Dumping the body

    deep in the woods， like a gangster. The dent

    in your nose. All your life， the trail of ruin you leave.