after George Oppen

with the streets, with the last of the black ice refusing to melt, with the doe hit on the side of the road, with the deer hide drop box on the corner of the abandoned gas station, with looking inside the deer hide drop box, with the sweet stench of rot that fills the car as we drive past, with you, with the trucks that roar past us, with dead deer tied to trailers with bungees like red ribbon, with bound hooves, with I-83S and the truckers that wave me on in my tiny sedan, with the truckers that swerve into my lane as they drive exhausted through the night dragging shit from place to place, with the millions buying the shit that needs to be driven, with the knockoffs, with the cheapskates, with the thrifting, with Carol smoking on her porch waving to us as we walk past, with Carol noticing when we are on vacation, with having neighbors, with the santized suburbs I fled, with the fur coat that makes me sneeze, with the Aldi advent chocolates, with you, with the canned venison with fat crusting the top from your Aunt Julie, with how much work it fucking takes to piece together a life that is worth waking up into, with the squash plant left to its own devices that took over half the garden and its fruits that fill our garage, with you, with the kids who battle with sticks in our yard as they wait for the bus, with hurting, with healing, with driving for hours every day to be someone better, with being better, with truckers, with dead deer, with the fawns in the woods by the creeks staring at us through the winter spindly trees, with the spots that still dot them, with deer alive deer, with being alive, with the melt, with the streets.