Split Map

 
 
 
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 received her BA in English from Boston University. After living in multiple cities, she is happily settled with her family in Boston, where she writes poetry and hangs out with ghosts. Her poems can be found in DIALOGIST, The Knicknackery, Menacing Hedge, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. She is currently working on her first chapbook. Follow her on Twitter @aprilist or visit her site at aprilist.com.