The girls undress over the freeway. So much skin
and speed at once, bangles tangled in a tee. You should be happy you’re
seeing this, but you spilled coffee on the passenger seat. You’ve never had a
passenger. There’s a story you tell: someone
buried alive. The pedestrian bridge walks its own plank at night. You drive under the girls; the girls
don’t mind. They’re jacking dials to pirate radio, listening for sabers and
buried treasure. from under the highway
inside a warehouse a bench train station gas gauge rain
My mind was a movie that kept us both
company. Trailers showed spoilers. Depending on which friends we asked, one
of us wanted to downsize her feelings. I just wanted lights out to last.
Birds flew south and you became Ralph.
I begged Ralph to drop the italics.
You made me promise to alter my syntax. Sometimes I suffered from static
attacks, numbers New Government crunched into nibs. Free radio broadcast from rat traps on Key, clandestine wireless
tuned to torn sheets.
Carol Guess is the author of six books, including Tinderbox Lawn
(Rose Metal Press, 2008) and Doll Studies: Forensics (Black Lawrence
Press, forthcoming 2012).
Archived at http://lit.konundrum.com/poetry/guessc_poems.php
Copyright respective authors
and Konundrum Engine