名人诗歌|Deer Hit

You're seventeen and tunnel-vision drunk，

swerving^{1 your father's Fairlane wagon2 home}

at 3：00 a.m. Two-lane road， all curves

and dipsdark woods， a stream， a patchy acre

of teazle and grass. You don't see the deer

till they turn their headsroad full of eyeballs，

small moons glowing. You crank the wheel，

stamp both feet on the brake， skid^{3 and jolt4}

into the ditch. Glitter and crunch^{5 of broken glass}

in your lap， deer hair drifting like dust. Your chin

and shirt are soakedone eye half-obscured

by the cocked bridge of your nose. The car

still running， its lights angled up at the trees.

You get out. The deer lies on its side.

A doe， spinning itself around

in a frantic^{6 circle， front legs scrambling7，}

back legs paralyzed， dead. Making a sound

again and again this terrible bleat^8.

You watch for a while. It tires， lies still.

And here's what you do： pick the deer up

like a bride. Wrestle^{9 it into the back of the car}

the seat folded down. Somehow， you steer¹⁰

the wagon out of the ditch and head home，

night rushing in through the broken window，

headlight dangling^{11， side-mirror gone.}

Your nose throbs^{12， something stabs}

in your side. The deer breathing behind you，

shallow and fast. A sTOPlight， you're almost home

and the deer scrambles^{13 to life， its long head}

appears like a ghost in the rearview mirror

and bites you， its teeth clamp down on your shoulder

and maybe you scream， you struggle and flail¹⁴

till the deer， exhausted^{15， lets go and lies down.}

2

Your father's waiting up， watching tv.

He's had a few drinks and he's angry.

Christ， he says， when you let yourself in.

It's Night of the Living Dead. You tell him

some of what happened： the dark road，

the deer you couldn't avoid. Outside， he circles

the car. Jesus， he says. A long silence.

Son of a bitch， looking in. He opens the tailgate，

drags the quivering deer out by a leg.

What can you tell himyou weren't thinking，

you'd injured your head？ You wanted to fix

what you'd brokenrestore the beautiful body，

color of wet straw， color of oak leaves in winter？

The deer shudders^{16 and bleats17 in the driveway.}

Your father walks to the toolshed，

comes back lugging^{18 a concrete block.}

Some things stay with you. Dumping the body

deep in the woods， like a gangster^{19. The dent20}

in your nose. All your life， the trail of ruin you leave.