lukewarm visions of domestic bliss

CW: death (in reference to roadkill), mention of blood

I saw a dead fawn on the side 

 of the road while 

waiting at the redlight.

Its legs pointed up 

to the blue nothing sky,

its back rested 

in the grass median.

The grass was tall enough to 

leave some grace behind.

There wasn’t any 

 blood 

on the asphalt.

I couldn’t see the fawn’s 

fresh dead face.

So fresh

 that it had barely learned to walk,

so fresh

 that the flies hadn’t gotten to it yet.

The dead fawn was whispering

 in my ear

while its soft stomach went hard.  

It insisted 

that you are going to leave.

Dead things still talk.

you were crying on the driveway 

while it dry stormed around you.

you were crying on the driveway and 

a group of deer 

on the hill

watched you 

from their perch at the edge of the woods, 

they dare not touch the asphalt.

Was the cracking, bloodless asphalt warm

on your summer legs?

The thunder rattled in and bounced

against

the walls of your chest cavity.

The lightning that came before it fell down

the sky

like blood down a forearm.

Not a single piece of the blood, 

light, 

blood 

could make your big-nothing-eyes 

any less suffocating.

Did you sob so hard 

snot ran down your face, 

so hard that you couldn’t breathe?

Were you quiet so the deer wouldn’t hear you?

The heat of the storm

dried your salty eyes and cheeks,

they didn’t shine at all.

We both ached because of it.