To Everything, There Is

Donna Vorreyer

a season of entrails
carcasses flattened unnatural
on the tarmac in varying stages
of rot that tilt the dog’s nose
toward the desperate wreckage

yards and gardens draw the fallen

from the nearby preserve
with its drought-drained lake
the frogs now dried to parchment
silhouettes, the snake skins coiled
to survey their own innards 

worst is the young doe

dismembered and strewn
on both sides of the lane divider
tempted by sweet leaves
of hosta or bitter stalks
of tomato plants

I don’t know why I said worst 

as if the other creatures
deserved their deaths but
the deer have often jeweled
my mornings with stillness, soft
eyes, quick and muscled limbs 

peace in those first waking
moments at the window so it seems
worse as my nurturing bones
ache to see that baby’s head
severed from its torso

The reptiles are never removed

their skins turning to paper or leaf
crumbling and dispersed by wind
small mammals lying long enough
to become pungent and troublesome
so I must not be the only one

because the fawn is gone

by the time I drive back home
her body scraped from pavement
by someone who loved
her white-spotted flank and
her lush eyelashes 

this is what I tell myself though

I am well aware of the reality because I need
to believe that someone will transport
the wreck of me to a resting place with
tenderness that I will be remembered
as something beautiful