Oregon drove through me,
green and thick,
a thousand flashes of God’s brown bark
stretching toward himself.
The horses pushed their red bodies toward
the fence where I watched.
I am always watching for the horses
while the road stretches out
like a scroll that cannot be filled.
Kate presses her foot against the gas,
and winces at the pain that shoots
through her lower back.
Between the two of us,
we are ache and empty of
sleep. There is nothing to catch up to.
Now, awake in a castle attic bedroom in Omaha,
I arch my bare feet and curl my toes
with my feet hanging off the edge of the bed.
Missouri is the midday horizon
pushing closer after coffee and eggs.
I cannot take in what continues to drive through me.
Dinah Washington sings the blues,
the wood walls were rough once.
We take turns washing the road off
before leaving. Iowa is in my hair.
Missouri is the horizon.