A woman with your voice
on tape drove me to town,
and stopping at the overlook rest stop
she heaved over the sink and told me
the gravesites behind the hotel are illuminated
in a way that might remind me of my hometown
—it was true, there were pistons in every surface
uncovered by flash photos taken too close to the faces of friends,
classmates, and parents as they ascended to heaven.
A woman with your hairstyle
drove me to the hospital in exchange for the diorama
of a housed moon made of the skin
I collected from our sheets. The mauve fog stacking
itself above the city is the only
circumstantial red as we approach
the guardrail like calculus.
She said, “I’m here.
Do you love me?” and coughed.
Meanwhile I’m in the trunk with dreams of your thighs
contoured with scars and the one time I remember
speaking in a dream,
with corrugated walls. We can’t tell
if the newspaper photos were taken after
the impact. I promise we’re dead in them and you
continue pasting them to your bed frame.
Robert Held is an English (creative writing) major at SUNY Geneseo, makes video poems, wants to be a big boy, likes videos of farming equipment and PlayStation, and stepped in a muddy puddle today but didn’t get his socks wet! He’d be best friends with Voltron.