I am driving around the night
in a pickup truck
with no lights in the dash.
A 70 mile-per-hour egg, and I am its yolk.
Or maybe not 70. Without illumination,
how to reckon one’s own speed?
—wind like spinning tires carving ruts in my hair.
—skin peeling back,
one indiscernible layer at a time.
No. That was someone else’s story.
I was the tire jack wrapped in cloth, content
to lie with the lug wrench in the hold.
A case of flares, fuses unlit.
The pair of yellow eyes mounted up front, not
vision enough for secondary roads
like cindered carpets rolling out ahead.
All around me was crackle,
I might have accelerated straight on through.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 3.
See all items about Nancy Carol Moody