Someone is living in the rusted
pickup parked on Burr Cliff.

A woman washes underwear
in the gas station sink, mouths

son of a bitch past her reflection
in pockmarked stall doors.

It’s beautiful, the way we hush
when blood presses through

seams, around our jewelry, hair.
In the asphalt lot out back, trees

seep into the sky like blue ink
on polyester. More of a bloom

than a rush. They don’t say
that a weed’s roots are the exact

mirror of its majestic branches.
When the truck stop follows you

onto the curb with a hard stare,
run. In another town, doused

with patchouli, the woman might
have a guitar and fringed jacket,

the back door of a fraternity late
past last call. She whips her hair

back, kicks gravel to the road.
The air is so thick it’s like tongues.