The Doe
Marilyn Trent

She lays in the middle
of the narrow country road
staring at me with big doe eyes,
back broken
hind legs useless,
flailing, trying to run,
not knowing she should be dead.

I make a call-
deer hit,
still alive,
middle of the road,
send someone to help.
Sitting angled on the side of the road
My lights illuminating her struggle;
Still she stares at me with big doe eyes,
not knowing she will be dead.

Policeman arrives,
flashing lights,
flares in the road.
Unholstering his gun,
he warns me back.
Thunder resounds
through the pre-dawn stillness.
And she stares at me with big doe eyes,
not knowing she is dead.

January, 1999

Marilyn Trent
November, 1998

I argue with silver hairs
that entwine themselves
among my brown.
I stare at my reflection
and see the girl I was,
imagine the old woman I will be.

It’s frightening
being fifty;
on the backside,
counting down.
Each day a memory too soon.

Mind unfocuses.
Pull it back.
What’s that word?
Don’t remember.
Alzheimer's
creeping in so soon?
Or just too many thoughts
from all these years
crowding into
such a little place?

Fifty!  How odd it is
to say this word
that now pertains to me.
Fifty! 
     I have no grandchildren.
Fifty! 
     I haven't seen Montana
     through my own eyes.
Fifty! 
     Too many things undone
     to be already fifty!

I wonder where I go from here;
And if I will see
another fifty years,
or Montana,
or grandchildren,
or my brown hair
turn to silver,
or the old woman I will be.

My Love

I give you my love,
fragile and insignificant
as a wildflower
hidden in forest shadows.

I give you my love,
not with expectations
nor bounds and limits
that you must keep within.

I give you my love.
It is all I have to give.
It is my gift to you
to hold when you’re alone.

M. K. Trent

The Blood Of The Children

Five in the car,
forged identifications tucked
neatly away in wallets.
Laughing, talking about the night,
the excitement of being there
at a bar, with the real people,
with the perfect ones, the chosen ones.
On the road, the wide road, the way home.
It's a long way from Georgetown to Baltimore.

The car sways gently, rocking, rocking
and soon they sleep. All but one.
Gray-black highway stretches on,
white lines merging faster,
edges near, then far, then near.
As eyelids droop, wheels turn;
and in the darkness
on the edge of the road
the resting truck hums,
closer, closer, closer.
The awful sound
of metal and glass,
twisting, shattering
splits the night.

We tumble from beds
laid in too little
with eyes slightly open,
wondering who and why
and where this time.
I stumble to the radio room
while my comrades find their gear.
The doors go up, the sirens scream
and they are gone in the night.

The first ambulance arrives,
and from the speaker
comes the voice, adrenaline taut,
begging for help,
begging for God
to send more help.

The alarm pierces the night,
calling for anyone who will come.
More sirens, more tools, more people,
more bandages to stem the flow of blood,
the blood of the children
that lie in pieces beside the broken car.

It is two AM.
The children are asleep
in beds, in hospitals, in morgues.
I watch my comrades as they return,
most only children themselves.
They stand dazed, drinking from mugs
of steaming coffee, scribbling on paper
the story of the accident.
And suddenly they wrap trembling arms
around each other, and cry
for the loss of the children,
and the loss of innocence.

And in this night
they have grown,
though pieces of themselves
are still missing
and alongside the road
in the darkness
with the blood of the children.

M.K. Trent