Poetry Moment

Woodchuck

in memory of Mary Pulley

Autumn furs rings
winter rolls of fat
angled between
moth-battered windshield
and blue road.
Why did it choose to follow
this arbitrary path?
I cried for an hour afterwards:
something I had never done before,
not even for you.

The soft crunch
of collar bone
beneath wheels
resounds
like the soft plop
of you
beside the bed
dying
a hundred miles away.

CS Knotts

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