by Dylan Mahood


How much longer until my tires splinter,

their rubber entrails decorating the interstate’s parched shoulder like roadkill left to dry?

Why do dead foxes always smile in their sleep?

And deer always splay out

like they’re testing beds built of asphalt, like they’re bleeding Jesuses

in medieval paintings taking

up room?

Who is responsible

for the dozens of monarchs

slain by my car between Texas and California: me, the people who built the road,

or the butterflies?

Which came first: car or carnage?