On route 208,
just before exit 47A
that leads you right
to the dollar store,
there was a deer.
The deer couldn’t move.
Its family wasn’t around.
I could see its intestines
bulging from its torso,
and it was missing its head.
We didn’t mention
what we had seen.
We made small talk.
I asked which
song you wanted me
to play.
I let the music deafen
to keep my thoughts
from hitting the ground.
what else was I hiding
from myself?
Was that cat, so small
and black, dead too?
I felt a tingling at the back
of my throat.
I wanted nothing more than to go out
into the road
and die.
But instead, I touched
your arm and my body trembled
like the first time I felt your breasts.

As each mile marker passes,
the headlights smell more and more
like rosemary, or maybe like the chicken
you fried at our first apartment, the one
on Blake Street — 
and I wonder how much farther
we’ll have to drive
before we’re lost.