headlights on my legs feel different
here, marooned with crickets, dead dirt.
like teeth, the sound of tires crunches through
the velvet curtain of cicada songs.
one day i’ll make it to the highway tides
of trucks heading for distant coasts.
they drive through deserts, true. but then,
it’s a dry heat, wind in your face.
what would that be like? seated high
in a cushioned cab, gripping one’s own wheel,
far cry from this mottled swamp and
the secret sweating of my gums.
smooth sailing from there: truck stops, roadside stands
and then the great salt cities. dunes.
fresh seafood. oysters. (ah, oysters!)
made myself sick once with those things, once.
our first christmas eve together,
those soft bodies glimmered in their
prison beds, eager for the spring,
sliding down. i tasted sand, silk, freedom.