I’m driving your pickup
through the back roads
no idea where I’m going and you
are high, ranting greasefire
you turn to me, oxen dead
in your eyes, am I dead
I have to collar you
as you open
your door
to fly into blackness
I feel we’re shucking off
it’s just you and me and we
are alone together
you, hollow worms
me, still loving like the dirt
of the North Carolina roads I let
wander us home one hand
on the wheel the other
twisted into your red t-shirt
and we are both
screaming, I am so certain
you need me
I never slow down
the night sky
yawns over your pickup
summer bugs hum with the tires
there is nothing in the pines
or in the crosshatched stars
I expect the next morning
will bring you back
you rattle around the apartment
leaving me
the open door
saving you was not
enough I am gutsick
due North

Rebecca Connors was raised in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. and received her BA in English from Boston University. After living in multiple cities, she is back in Boston where she writes poetry and works as a digital strategist. Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Eunoia Review, burntdistrict, Bird’s Thumb and Dialogist. Find her on Twitter at @aprilist.