Poem Where I Find Test Strips in the Dryer Lint

Most of the time, this is
unremarkable. I feel indifferent.

To imagine the red-pocked
canyons on your fingerprints.

Over a lifetime. Numbness
settles like fog over the road

when slow moving tail lights
materialize and I see your adult

body, long and lithe enough
to fill a bed, or your hand,

hooking a steering wheel.
May neither be your grave.

By Rachel Morgan

Advertisements