Driving through West Virginia, Listening to the Radio

By Virginia Van de Riet

Leaves like rust, like scabs around the treetops.
The road twists tightly, choking out the copses.
Here, the limp form of the fawn is draped
so gently on the curb it looks like love,
like a blanket on a sofa’s armrest,
its back still soft and dappled white and red
where the sunlight trickles down. Such trust as
can lead to this—a mother leads a child
into asphalt, into steel—can go by
many names, but let’s just call it blind.
Surprise, surprise, surprise, the radio
sings but it lies. Trust is a fall, a branch,
a grasping hand, an oar that rows the Styx.
The carcass rests, alone but for the flies.

Virginia Van de Riet is a junior from Indian Trail, North Carolina. Her favorite animals, in order, are octopuses, bears, and snakes.