Spring 2021
Roadkill Amandine De Simone The sun and moon watch double sentry tonight. Each illuminates as well as yet it might, and the fireflies contribute to the cause: their flickering — blink, rest, blink, rest, ignition, pause —, the wailing wavering of a funeral-candle-light. The frenzied fires defame each unsteady vehicle. They know intentionality is impossible — (for it must be so! no malice could deprive the precious entropy of something still alive) but carelessness is sufficiently detestable. The animal’s mother waits, tree-shelter-hid, to grieve. The mother of all, she endeavors not to believe — repressing each invasive thought of fear and dread, she stares out at the ugly barren field instead: her straying son has not returned to her this eve. Her silent sobs come only from her wounded black eyes. Helpless, she, without the words to eulogize, unconscious of her only consolation, (if called such): her child’s living force was never one part as much as his endless power now to shock and traumatize.
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