driving in ditches
They stood and stared at our beating wings
our skeletal figures asleep at the wheel
as we drove down ditches
with our feet caked in mud,
minds covered in bees
buzzing, biting words of hate
in our general direction.
You seem pleased to be here
standing singular in the wind
with nothing to watch but your own body
seep deeper into the streambed
watch it sink
sink into something that was once called sand.
Oh look how fast we can run
when there’s nowhere to go
digging our feet deeper
into the land
pulling up long weeds with our toes
only to replant them farther down the road
where we make camp for the night
and decide how we’d like to die.
You count constellations,
point out the planets that are too far away
to be distinguished from the stars,
lost in the shuffle of shiny points you scratch out
in the dirt
and draw with blue sharpie on your arm,
(let the big dipper cup your scars).
We talk about what it would be like
if it was always dark
if we never had to wait
for the morning, for the light
to peek through your drawn curtains
and remind us we made it
through another night.