The road is not a surgeon,
not a scalpel excising
flesh from flesh.
The mountain lion
is not a hatchback,
not a semi barreling
toward the escape.
The road is not a wall,
though it might
as well be. The big cats
tumble their cells, braid
their double helixes
like to like. The road
is a guillotine—no—
the road is an electric
fence, an electric
vein of lights and grilles
and steel. The shoulders
of the mountain lion
ripple with each silent
step. Her eyes are not
headlamps. Her cubs
are not a gas gauge
hovering over E.
The road is a drain.
The road is a knife.
The road is a closed-eyed
hum. The mountain lion
is a yellow-eyed window.
Her body is one part
mammal, one part
guardrail. The road
is a scalpel. The lion
licks the edge, laps
the fog line as the road
purrs into the night.