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