roadkill

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It looks like pink spaghetti
with macaroni cheese glued and melted on the side.
Someone stuck a skeleton in the creases of the fur and arteries.
The woods are whispering to the trees
as the cars scream at the deer.
The deer are made of snow and as the trees flicker their eyelashes
to the elves,
a crack is heard and the bones break. The door breaks
and Santa comes running with masking tape and cookies
in his hands.
A teapot full of Vicodin is spilled on the smokey road and I can see
my father
riding a bike into the meaty cave of the raccoon’s demolished rib cage,
that once held its heart, and its heart
is three feet away
biting the ground.
I hear the mice singing, and the helicopter roars overhead.
Overhead I see a cloud kiss the mountains and a moose
gobble up the lake;
he begins to sing
to the wolves
as his naked neighbors shed their leaves on the floor





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