I’m afraid the poem will never leave me completely.
That this grief must need me, the way the bruise needs
the soft of a body. Why else do I survive
what she couldn’t? Why else am I left behind
to climb out the driver’s side if not to carry in me
the siren’s lonely tremolo, metal taste
of what’s unsalvageable. I want to stop
writing her out of existence,
to erase the passing soldiers holding her
on the shoulder of Interstate 15.
Traffic lanes on every page now,
every word a vehicle I don’t make it out of
until the end cracks open like a windshield
and I crawl out its sudden mouth.
Washington Square Review (Fall 2015 issue)