Chad Foret

 

He went out in his car for some air,
   & to feel a little like he’d vanished.

He left his phone & everything at home,

didn’t have a destination & enjoyed
disappearing. On highway 37, a deer was

       in the middle of the shoulder. Struck,

collapsed, he wasn’t sure. He grabbed
       the bungee cords beneath the seat

in back. He was a hunter & hated

   to waste. When he tried to lift the deer,
      she kicked herself away & down

   the hill into the woods until she hit

a tree. She wasn’t moving anymore.
    He sat beside her on the ground

to catch his breath, got on his knees

& rolled her up & back onto the road.
     The car was gone. It was growing

late & cold. To stay warm, he spooned

the deer in the shoulder of the road.
   When it rained, he tried

      getting underneath her body,

but she was heavy & the weather
      made her stink. Somebody

came by when there almost wasn’t

  any light. He groaned, delirious.
    It was so dark, they mistook him

               for an injured animal.

They had something for the suffering,
       said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,”

          a rifle floating in the rain.

 

Return to Fall Issue Volume 11.1

 

 

Chad Foret is recent graduate of the Creative Writing program at The University of Southern Mississippi. He teaches world literature and composition at Southeastern Louisiana University. Recent work appears or is forthcoming in Best New Poets, Tupelo Quarterly, Spoon River Poetry Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Nashville Review, and other journals and anthologies.