Acrid smell that lit on fire my nose
One eye black as a marble
Blood, a rope like puddle of insides
Never did I realize
The tininess of a squirrel hand
I was 6
My eyes grew
My pupils black like that marble
Though nervous, but curious
My hand moved to its fur
A dead thing
Yet fur smooth as silk
I wanted to see
If a heartbeat existed
Amongst a carcass of cracked bones
And tire burnt skin
I had almost touched
The little stripe down it’s back
She grabbed my hand
As if I were about to touch fire
A little bone popped
I cried with guttural instinct
She was more afraid
Of a dead squirrel
Of disease, visceral nausea in her guts
She tugged me away
Tears streaming down my cheeks
Not a word of my wrist
Never looked back at the squirrel
Let him lie there
Cars to continue to break
Bones on a pavement
As black as his marble eye