Bambi

I saw the doe being hit through the windshield.
How headlights illuminated the carnage.
Her glassy eyes locked with mine.
I swear I heard her speak -
a silent plea before she died.
A woman’s war front is the night.
I smelled it before I saw her -
the reek of slaughter and man.
The absence of innocence
is always louder than its presence.
I ran for her. I swear, I ran.
I couldn’t save her - why, I can’t recall.
The guilt consumed me.
Yet it was never mine to bear.
Still, I carry it - a needle of regret,
threaded through my lungs by hands not my own.
I kissed her forehead.
Cupped her face in my palms.
Ran my fingers through her fur.
She collapsed into my arms, but they grew tired.
"Your soul does not belong to me.
I am not God, not even a man.
Yet I pray, as merely a girl, that someone may care for you
more than those who were meant to.
I apologise on behalf of men -
I’m afraid humanity has fallen short."
I mirrored her eyes as she passed,
dried her tears to drown in mine,
and carried her body to the woods, away from the relentless side of the road.
There, beneath spindle-branch and shadow,
I laid her down.
Smoothed her ear.
Closed her stare.
A girl-deer. A dear girl.
I buried her in the heath, among the berries and sage,
just past the creek.
Root, rot, rain.
I pray that from her body, life might arise -
that flowers may bloom.
But even in death, a woman’s purpose lies
at the will of another.