Extirpation

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.


Also by Brittney Corrigan

$hare