Roadkill
I. 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 something II. 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 III. 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.
The Albion Review 