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Dec 2012
The day I knew you died
was the day my brother called
and the day the cat left a half-eaten mouse on the front porch.
Its tail was still there,
and a little bit of pink intestine,
like an exclamation mark.
I swore silently.
Trudging toward the back field that evening,
(the mosquitoes were a *****),
I found you in the creek,
half submerged with your *** in the air.
You were covered in dirt and blood.
I put my hands on my hips and swore again.
I could see even from where I was standing
that your windshield was smashed all to hell
and your right front tire was punctured.
I would never ride with you again,
never share those starry skies
as we passed bloated raccoons
and greasy ditches.
Anger lurked behind my eyes.
Your killer was lying a few feet away,
Three broken legs
and a shattered back,
with glassy eyes that stared blankly up at the sky.
In a few days I would have its antlers above the mantelpiece.
But meanwhile
I looked at my brother,
who was standing there sheepishly,
two unbroken hands shoved in his deep denim pockets,
and told him he was paying for the tow.
Written by
Leah Hervoly
3.0k
   G M Oliver
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