January 21, 2014

Deer by Sam Bockover

I saw your figure emerging from the bend in the road. You were
wrapped in the wind and snow and wearing them both
like robes of feral, upper plains majesty.

Your fur was the color of the earth in a distant season. I swear we
made eye contact as I
grazed – thud – you – kathunk – with my car.

And before I could register the damage done, you were gone.
Melting away – becoming one, once again, with the graupel and trees and
faint lights of distant houses. My car was mostly undamaged;
the only scar you left was a driver side door that groans and scrapes,
like it can never forget that night, either.

I didn't really know what to do, and, being
the type of person that I am, pulled off into a
nearby casino parking lot, where I got out of the car
and offered up a few panicked, expletive-filled
prayers for forgiveness.

Sam Bockover is a writer and poet from the American upper plains.

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