Roadkill
By Iris Gribble-Neal

Men hang out in the carnival dimension of 
a woman’s brain, occupying the space labeled
The Only Man I Ever Loved.
And don’t we all have one of those
returning like a salmon to spawn just when
the melancholy of March begins to lift.
She changes her name each time
Raul returns, living dangerously in the world
of rabbits, roadkill, and Elvis. Quite the circus
but it beats the house of secrets
she was raised in where bruises became
maps of purple stories about falls,
stumbled steps, and doorknobs until
everyone agreed to believe.
Those were the days of ancient gods
ruling the crossroads littered with candy
wrappers and cigarette butts,
Jim Beam and beer. Raul doesn’t stay
long; horse thieves never do.
He was raised speaking the velvet language
of horses and never quite recovered.
Horses follow him anywhere down
the road with the innate grace of cowardice,
slowly leaving her again. This is
the part of the story she can never get
past, where glass breaks, someone screams,
and the bats begin circling in silence.

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