By Nancy Lynée Woo
After James Tate
I’ll be hit
by a speeding car while sitting in the passenger’s side
the yellow lanes now guardrails leading
into the next subway (except
it takes forever to get there).
I know that’s how I’ll die. I’ve seen it.
Nothing special, she says.
You, though. Your death
is the best of all:to be impaled—bloated heart
lingering on metal rod, pushing up into the sky
guts spilling out onto everyone