Anna Connors

Don’t Wake the I-98

We didn’t know the highway was closed.
Dark clouds’ bruised underbellies
                                                                    clog the sky.
Road colors radiate
                                         through their dusting of ash,
black-eyed Susan yellow
                                                   in unsung morning.
Our car,
                  the only moving shape.
We find the occasional image
hold it,
                 an impossible breath.
A-frame churches,
                                      steeples pierce the air.
Crushed animals
                                   like moccasins
at this speed
                           their lovely, beaded bodies
and black
                       in the rearview mirror,
carrying us
                         one mile marker to another
until all signs say
                                   go home.
You’ll wake
                        the enthroned bulldozers,
tall and curved
                                like pitcher plants.
You’ll wake
                         the broken billboards
that plead redemption,
                                                the abandoned shopping carts
that couldn’t possibly
                                              be out this far,
directing us toward home.