I was 16
when I turned the snowy bend in the old Chevy
and crunched the rabbit with two jolts of Goodyears
we had just been laughing on the way home from South Bend
talking about how we were going to apply to Notre Dame
and the 24-21 thriller in OT
we warmed our hands in front of the car heater,
played with the radio dial,
and pondered if we should stop for coffee and pie
I was about to tell you, I loved you,
when I relaxed and crushed the animal
I punched the brakes and cast a red hue
over the scene before taking to the cold
to check on the carnage
I kneeled over the body when you,
standing by the bed,
called out,
Did it suffer?
I lay my hand on its blood-stained coat, bent down,
and whispered something of an agnostic prayer
Then you approached, and we transferred the body
onto some sticks and moved the roadkill like pallbearers
to a tall snowdrift
We then returned to the vehicle and let the shaking subside,
and you whispered, That’s what you’re supposed to do—
you’re supposed to hit the animal, not swerve
I returned my hands to the grooves in the steering wheel
as you told me there are plenty of rabbits
And I nodded and rumbled off, understanding that even
the most cautious sometimes needed to draw blood and kill
Mathieu Cailler is the author of seven books. His work has appeared in over one hundred publications, including the Saturday Evening Post and the Los Angeles Times. He is the winner of a Pushcart Prize; a Readers' Favourite Award; and the Paris, Los Angeles, and New England Book Festival Prizes.