In the way that taxidermy
and open heart surgery
build an appetite,
I get hollow when I drive.
After work it was a tree branch
pretending corpse,
gnarled limbs upturned in helplessness,
curled on its back in shades of gray,
brown, dog, deer.
There was a story my dad would tell
about a friend in high school
who would swerve into roadkill for fun.
He said his car smelled so bad.
Once, on a trip to Florida,
we stalled in traffic for two hours
and when we finally passed
the smoking hull of car
sliced in half by semi
my mom said “cover your eyes”
like she did when the Criminal Minds trailers
came on between Survivor reruns.
That’s the last time I remember
my mom and dad in a car together
and the first time I remember
peeking through the gaps in my fingers.
Now I don’t have anyone to tell me
what I’m not supposed to see,
so when I drive past something dead
I look, and I look, and I look.