Roadkill

I pray, approaching
the rapture
in their open, dying
eyes: racoons, skunks,
the occasional dog—
its owner, desperate,
calling Ollie, Ollie…
A Hail Mary can’t help,
but I say one anyway
because it’s all I can do
to relieve the weeping
blister of my brain
from studying their
sweet crushed skulls.
Sometimes, I’ll drag
a doe into the reeds
to keep my secret:
I am not a nice lady.

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Amy Thatcher is a native Philadelphian, where she works as a public librarian. Her poems have been published in Guesthouse, Bear Review, Rust + Moth, Rhino, and are forthcoming in Crab Creek Review.