Caelan Tree
Fer-de-Lance

Yellow-beard pit viper, muscled spiral thick
as my thigh, I won’t forget your power

over my mother, her love for you—after the storm,
long torrent of mud and water, when she shrieked

to my dad — pull over! — seeing you in the road
all piled on yourself, steeping in muck.

I’m getting out, my mother said, and opened
the car door. Her love for you — her intention

to chase you out of the highway, send you
back into the mess of trees. Within the second

a trucker ran you over, and we watched you
flail, strike the tires — your head, a venom-tipped

arrow. The blur of your yellow face — lashing
at the line of cars that followed. As you neared

death, how your body curled and writhed,
how you seemed to be dancing.

Groundhog

Flat on your back against asphalt, like a tongue
stuck to ice, legs flailing in midair. As though
running. If the road turned upside-down, you would

have fallen feet-first into sky. As you were, crushed,
organs already burst under the pressure of hot
rubber tires —                                            what

does kindness mean for a groundhog
still thrashing, a flurry of fur and internal
bleeding, nowhere to run, paws finding only air?

<< return to the Table of Contents for New Series #8: Winter 2019, Volume 4 Number 2