Ollie Schminkey – Yet Another Poem About Roadkill

Curated By Ralph

"The Road Not Taken" is a source of inspiration for me, because it encourages me to seize opportunities and chart my own course in life.

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Ollie Schminkey, performing at the Button studio.

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– Yet another poem about roadkill. For people, we use words Like distended, wound care, hypertension. For roadkill, we use words
like disgusting, dead, wrecked. When are we saying what we really mean? My father's bones disappear
beneath his thick skin, Muscle replaced with water. He retains so much water
it bleeds from his skin Like condensation dripping down a window. His legs swell like a hot dog In the microwave about to burst. He breathes in short gasps, Whispers, "Please God, let me die." My father drinks a glass
of milk on the couch, Then becomes so weak His hands shake the
glass out of his fingers And it smashes on the ground. His feet are purple, Like they have decided to die
before the rest of his body. I rub lotion on his purple feet, All over the sores that bubble
up his calves to his knees. I wrap his legs in new bandages Like they will hold him together. For people, we use words Like hospice, terminal illness, declining. For roadkill, we use words like
fucked up, flattened, gone. My father is so gone he
fucks up all of his pills And the morphine flattens his memory Until he can't even remember my name. He always taught me that when
the dog can't walk anymore, You take it out back with a shotgun. "End its misery," he would say. And I wonder how many things he has loved, Only to look into their eyes,

His large hand cradling their
soft and graying jawlines, Lean the gun against
their sagging stomachs, And pull the trigger. I wonder how their limp bodies fell, If he hugged them to
his chest, if he cried, If he dug the hole before or after The animal turned into a body. I sort his pills by the hour And wonder how he knew it was time. The only difference between
a dead dog and roadkill Is that the dog was loved. But its body will bloat the
same if left in the sun. Its body will rot the same either way. All I can do is drive past. My father's body is on my way home. His body is on the way to the store. His body is on the way to
everywhere I need to go. And I drive past and the
maggots bite into his eyes. And I drive past and the
sores on his legs widen. I drive past and his purple
legs burn red in the sun. And he splits and the illness
breaks a thousand shards, A thousand glasses until we
live in a house of shards. Sometimes, I want to
drag his body out back, My small hand cradling his
soft and greying jawline, Hold his face in my hand
like a white dandelion About to burst into wishes, Lean the gun and pull.

Hey... I'm Jasper!

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