Roadkill
by Guinevere Campbell

Tonight, on strange, delicate roads,
curling, weaving, like intestines
through the land, we drive.

There. Not there.
There. Not there.

We ride over an already dead animal.
We override our already dead thoughts
with music and talk.

Ahead, a black ball
tumbles into the road
-- we are here.
we are there --
And now, it takes flight.
And now, our windshield
is there.

It shields us from the wind
knocked out of this bird.
But not from the view.

We scream -- a defensive shriek --
But we are not there anymore.

We pull over to catch
our breath in the air
the bird had breathed in
and flown through.

We return to the car.
And here,
we are drifting
over surfaces
cleansed by a mid-night shower,
clearing our view, and the paths,
of their passing.