On Trash Day, 3 Miles Away From The Dead Deer

For discarding: a Chinese takeout carton, tin handle twisted into an abstract hourglass. The month’s worth of toe clippings inside it. Stray rice grains (not to be confused with clippings), flicked under the sofa to mess with the dog. A dozen or so newspaper headlines. These are things that catch the light like a fish swallowing the sun in its machine-gun mouth. For consideration: a body as something to live in. Sun-desiccated peach pits giving way to a soft bruise of shame. The cheap, sweat-stained nickel chain on my nightstand for junior prom. Eye glitter stuck to my pillow. These are things that we do not have to lose. For safekeeping: my pockmarked mouth. My bag of dead tamagotchis. Lead beads, plasticly rattling like a grandfather’s bad breath and hazy with sulfur when held up to the ceiling light. These are things that we cannot forgive each other for. A supermarket coupon for dried mangoes (not the brand you like). The memory, unbidden, of my father coming to a slow peeling stop on the shimmering slate of Route 87, rolling down the window and pointing: yes, he’s been there a while. It was sleeping on its side, turned away. I asked why and he said animal control hasn’t gotten here, I guess. I repeated the question and the answer was the same. In other universes there are metaphors I can use, endless miracles for conjuring to compare the maggots to children and the cars to metal beasts. In this one, my dad rubs the bridge of his nose, where his glasses have pitted his skin red, and closes the window. Look, he says. Another one, up ahead.