When you took a hard right off
the interstate I was flung,
doors unlocked, from
my front seat slump,
rolled a thousand times
in the dirt as the dust left in
your wake filled my mouth,
desertion like so many
cactus pricks.
You were once so gentle.
We were once reading from the same page.
Which novel have you since picked up?
Is it any good?
I strain to remember
the softening of our lips,
the slow rumble of the car
down a straight, safe street,
the ending of the story,
spoiled by impatience and
a trembling hand that
flipped to the last page
saw everything she wanted and
willed the ink to disintegrate
before she is loved
beyond the reaches of
those printed words.
You started to speed.
I wish I hadn’t looked.
Don’t take the back roads,
not while I’m still reading –
I’ll be sick.
I’ll be sick.
I’ll be sick.
(2018)