I-80 Heading West

April 2016

so it is you and a boy in a car.

one of you is a god, or a martyr,

or maybe you’re both a reflection

and it doesn’t matter that it feels

like you’re drowning in your own

chrysalis. you have to understand:

this is not the first time.

causality, balanced, knife-point.

you will never not be here again.

it is you, and a boy, in a car,

and something cracks through: half-

formed, mewling, inevitable.

this too—you, it—a lesson.

you are seeking something mythical.

instead you will only get

spit-bruised lips,

petal-torn edges,

february baptisms,

involuntary awakenings,

a gun to the head.

you are a cultivation of jagged

stigmata. it is you as much as him.

the night blurs honey-wine.

it never mattered if it hurt,

you’d forget as fast if it hadn’t.

it is you, and a boy in a car

and he is never any different than

the last time you felt this ache.

you are nothing more than transient.