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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

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.