Poetry by Elliot DelSignore

2004 Honda Civic

If I had wanted to care for a child I would’ve

taken better care of myself. The first time I

climbed into a car I thought my whole body

would give out, that my hands would tremble

and my heart would stop and my feet wouldn’t

be strong enough to press the pedals. Maybe I

did have blue moon eyes as a child but all I’ve seen

in the rearview mirror since is an eclipse. I’ve always

been afraid of deer, of their desperation and wobbly

long legs, the flash of headlights seconds before the

collision. Do you remember when I slammed on the

brakes in the dark and the seatbelt jolted me back

and that deer stood in the road, big brown doe eyes

gleaming in the harsh yellow light, bright and raw and

unafraid like wild things are? I don’t want to cause

a collision but it would be too simple. It would’ve been

so easy to have never stopped at all, to round the bend

and let the bones shatter like it was nothing. Do you

remember the bluejay we buried? Same brand of

wild innocence, fragile wings bent and broken, and

I held it and I thought it would be so painfully easy to

(crush out every last dying breath) put it out of its

misery. We buried it there under the birch trees. Last

time I saw that backyard, they were beginning to rot.

Elliot DelSignore is a writer and student from New Hampshire, where he

writes fiction and political pieces for his school's literary site. When he isn't writing, he enjoys skiing, debate, and learning about history and art.