I didn’t see him, the young buck in the throes of rutting,
as he emerged with breath steaming in the dawn.
I didn’t see the budding antlers wrapped in velvet,
the heaving chest, ribs pressing against air
like moth wings against a porchlight globe.
My foot instinctively switched pedals,
I knew too late the brakes wouldn’t catch
and wham! the sheer weight of him crumpled
my hood. I had never killed more than a bug,
but something about the angle of the sun
and the fast-twitch of spindly legs driven wild
by the pheromones of a nearby female
came together in blinding chaos that October morning.
Somewhere across the road, the doe moved on,
found another mate.
Now I am haunted by every antlered Christmas decoration
long after the body shop. All I see are wide eyes,
lolling tongue, and lungs deflating inward,
surely punctured by a rib or two.
Now I am the moth, drawn grotesquely to the light.
