Road Kill

On a beach north of San Francisco, milk was putrefying in the trailer of a refrigerated truck that had long ago run out of batteries, and the wind was drying up my eyeballs. I walked unsteadily across the sand, feeling like someone else’s mirage.

I tripped on a rocky flat and fell to my knees. My face reflected in the tidepool eyed me with scorn. Beyond it, a limpet clung to a stone ledge. With tenderness, I reached toward it from behind. Weakly, it yielded. In my palm, it was the color of sickly yolk. Its face was curious and good-natured.

With my knife, I carved it away from its shell and held it until it stopped moving.

Good night, little one. Sweet dreams.