you're seventeen, swerving your fathers car homeat 3:00 am. two-lane road all curves and dips
you don't see a deer till they turn their heads-road full of eyeballs
you crank the wheel stamp both feet on the brake, skid and jolt into the ditch. glitter and crunch of broken glass in your lap.
and here's what you do: pick up the deer like a bride. wrestle it into the back of the car the seat folded down. somehow you steer the car out of the ditch and head home.
you fathers waiting up, watching tv. he's angry. you tell him what happened. he opens the tailgate drags out a quivering deer out of a leg.what can you tell him-you weren't thinking.
your father walks to the tool shed, comes back lugging a concrete block. some things stay with you. dumping the body in the deep woods, like a gangster. the dent in your nose. all your life, the trail of ruin you leave