In ditches, the discarded tires
resemble murders. Or daughters.
Slender pickets of crosses
lingering at their margins.
There’s a racket in the things
left behind. Each name a handbag
or a hairpin. The forked heat
of backseats. My limbs are
riddled with sisters lurching
along interstates. Their low
lights and windshield gloom.
How they all lie down like this.
Lie down like this.Lie down like this.
