Roadkill Examination
ReginEld Edmonds | Oakland | USA
Its head is separated from the body in a way that reminds me of a popped black head pimple that I wish would have stayed unpopped instead of bursting across the glass of the unwashed bathroom mirror.
What I mean is: Ouch. what a terrible way to die.
I saw a rat pour out its entrails on 17th st and I swear God became a broken heart that stopped beating all of a sudden. And not a cardiac arrest kinda peace but with all the violence of rush hour traffic. The road crumbles and snaps bone and like bone and buzzards scream much like brakes grinding against axel against wheel against road against flesh and then the road again, only a bit slicker than the last time. Nobody knows where Death comes from, but everyone sees the trail of viscera left behind and knows exactly where he went.
Somewhere in the distance, A pair of headlights will disappear in the fog. But the blood remains. The blood remembers. The blood will appreciate the worms that hold Death accountable to the dirt. Decay is a reminder that even the worst things will leave. Even concrete will break apart until it becomes a soft bed of earth.
So what if we water the sidewalk with our innards? Who cares if we hollow out our bellies in the streets? Everything that empties itself must be filled again. Even if it is with maggots. I could die and birth a thousand flies. I could live and learn to swat them. But there will always be the buzzing. Always something trying to make noise.
Be quiet!
I am trying to think. About anything other than all the bodies in the street. I am trying to forget about the dead, or at least remember them in a way that doesn’t hurt anymore, but I keep thinking about how the rat’s tongue hung limp out its mouth like it died trying to taste something like freedom.
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