The Open Road

You said I must stop
haunting you,
took me to the blank wall
of my fear, you said I must
decorate it.

Held out that old teddy
the child dropped, reminded me how
if she'd just clutched him,
clenched her eyes tight
she wouldn't have been afraid.

You showed me the minutes saved
on our open road trip.
I countered with lives lost
cellophaned bunches of flowers.

That road ran over us,
our ancient woodlands,
left just pink innards,
glistening parts, the scrape
of the asphalt, flattened worms.

Look at their spined bodies,
black and white rugs of fur
those spilled-out frogs,
not shy enough newts.

All of us are road kill now
the blank wall is silent
because it voices our sounds.