The broken yellow line disappears
into the dark ahead. My rear-view mirror—
boundless black, trapped
in our mother’s womb, each other’s
arms. Trapped in a shared bed, your dark
rages, you drew a line, dared me to cross,
hurled angry words at me: I hate you.
I hate you. I wish you were dead!
You stalk my dreams, crouch in shadow,
clench scissors, knives, things that cut.
Strike. My screams
wake me. A blinding glare,
headlights fill my mirror, larger,
larger, beams on high, the past
lunging forward. Sister,
you overtake me in the night.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 4
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