49 miles to 50

That last attempt at elegance was worth it,
she tells herself, as the earworm bores itself
further into her brain, as the late baby shifts
uncomfortably in his engorged diaper. How much
liquid can something hold before it bursts, how much
disillusion is like the cloud in which you see
the shape of your spirit animal to find it blown apart
when you look back. Always looking away now,
from the ash, the ubiquitous fencing, the wide-angle
road, the scrappiness of nails and brows, the dust,
the mess. The map with the torn-out page, destination
on the fold. The dog too traumatized, scratching the scabs
of its sores, and the sun torching the tar, there are
people in the heat haze, figures morphing, mouthing
in lip sync, Honey, you chose the road, these fields
that fall to fields, make what you can from the scraps.

(First published in Slice, fall ’18/winter ’19)