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Parts Left Whole

Amanda Jane McConnon

Outside the fence the vultures leave
the tough half of the deer, with its antlers and eyes,
ribcage and heart. These parts left whole

and intact, the way a lover leaves
an uncomplicated warmth on the sheets
as his tailpipe coughs in the driveway.


Like a sick joke, the big highway splits
a graveyard before coming to a toll.
It’s easy to miss if searching for quarters,

and easy to ignore with hissed babble
on the radio. How easily I can spin a dial
to fill the whole car with nonsense, denial.


In the storm, my home rips away at itself:
The shutters swing loose, the shingles
tug free, even the foundation

rocks deep into new space.
I check for someone at the screen door
each time it slams hard in the wind.