Hegelian Wounds

Along the highway, there are dead deer
every 300 yards. They’re wet and there’s
no blood, just gray fur salted by
the State trucks. Men petition for a chance
to shoot the ones that aren’t dead yet.
“Even the buzzards won’t touch them.”
Some have their heads cut off,
Taken home for mounting, or maybe
European Mounting if their jaws are too
mangled for taxidermy. Science defies every
operable contingency in their armor.
Hind quarters spill, decorating the landscape with
wooden cross car wreck memorials,
barking dogs and ambulance sirens. I patrol
as all-season tires baptize them with brine and grit
and I press harder on the accelerator, jar of
generic tylenol in the cupholder, as if to warn them,
everything gets worse, and there is only enough
light ahead to see the telephone polls tilting, day
appearing, barely, leaving throats full of antlers, and
ligaments torn, just beyond the exit ramps.