by Carolee Sherwood

Inspired by a deer carcass which lay, four mailboxes down, until it lay there no longer
There is a deer (it is always the same one) who throws herself into cars on this curve year after year. She lies in the same spot every fall – her neck twisted, her eyes fixed, her legs stiff and awkward – until we stop seeing her each time we drive by. Then she sneaks away, limping of course, and finds a suitable place for her wounds to heal. It takes all winter. She rests. She prays. She reads many books. She learns that she doesn't have to repeat this kind of behavior. (Her friends have all left her, and her parents no longer call.) She is certain she is mostly better. Only, some nights she wakes in a sweat. She has been dreaming about the road, the salty grass at its edge, the sweet song of engines approaching.

 

 

Carolee is a painter, mixed media artist and poet. Her poetry has been published in Qarrtsiluni, Literary Mama, Ballard Street Poetry Journal and The Tipton Poetry Journal. She blogs about the creative process — sharing free-writes, draft poems and exercises — at "i am maureen". Trained as an expressive arts facilitator, she uses writing therapeutically in her own life and teaches others how to access the healing nature of the arts.