Sometimes driving, you see a dead animal in a roadside heap of its own wreckage, but it’s just a shredded truck tire turned back on itself in a kind of visual agony. That’s a common mistake, though who talks about it? My wife does. Usually a deer or a dog, maybe a smaller chunk that is a raccoon. Or even a skunk because you imagine you see a white stripe involved in the collapsed un-sculpture of debris lying there on the lonely shoulder.
Speaking of shoulder, I wish my wife were leaning her head on my shoulder. We’ve had a terrible fight, and I know the distance between the way I’m seeing how I hurt her and the way she’s angry is nearly a vast gulf, though I’m hoping that we…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, May/June 2024