No Animal Afterlife

See how wholly they open to us in death, to the moon, to the red elm scabbed with mites.

—Bruce Snider

Of course you are imagining an afterlifefor roadkill, but have you ever slowedor even stopped to look closelyat a raccoon's teeth buried in tar to the gums?See skunk smear near mustard flowerswhere carrion birds dragged it—black and white fur like silk in moonlight.

Either way, let me tell you about backyard-kill.My brother and I loved to pour bleach on lizards.It didn't always kill them; that wasn't our mission.We enjoyed poking the billowed throatsof frogs to see if they'd poplike a balloon. They never did.

We used to go on picnics near Big Devil's Fork Creek.I saw a warthog near a turn-off, bristly blackand blood-wet around its snout. I said a prayer.We'd bring our food and blanket to the edgeof the woods, and we'd walk to the granite outcropwhere "The Big Piney plummets into Dismal Creek,"my father said. And he told about the large hole

the creek had bored through the bluff.Instead of a waterfall, you see this detourwhere water and its cargo of rocks had broken through sandstone.My father's last few words trailed off, becausemy brother and I were watching a fox and a deerdrinking from the creek at the same time.