Chloe Moore



the deer must’ve been alive when i first
drove down her street
because by the time i’d gotten lost,
turned around, and come back,
there she was,
still and eyes open
and in all likelihood still warm,
in all likelihood not yet extinguished

what i remember: every atom in my body in my poison-fuelled,
killing machine of a car screaming
somebody do something

what i don’t remember: when i stopped being
somebody who could do


there is no grand burial
for the toad with the crushed skull
and lolling, swollen tongue
on the roadside

i tip him into the grass
i hope that one day we will learn better


the bird on the cement
is so light i can barely feel myself
holding her.
brown feathers float ever forward,
like her soul is already
shedding her body.
the damp earth i pack around her
feels too heavy for her hollow bones,
and i want to smash every window i see

instead i make her a grave
with two crossed sticks.
it is the best kindness i know

Chloë Moore (she/they) is an emerging poet who has lived in the South, the Northeast, and now, the Midwest. Her work sits at the intersection of the personal and the political and often explores ecopoetics, queerness, disability, and the tiny details that bring beauty to the mundane. When they’re not writing, Chloë enjoys reading, listening to and playing music, making art, and petting every dog they encounter. Her work has previously appeared in the Water~Stone Review.

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