by Shannon Elizabeth Hardwick
In a Toyota lives a stranger carrying hope
& the Book of the Dead;
you said you’d read it once
& the way out of your self was to break
skin through a wild animal, lure
it to your suburban garage with rituals, cat food,
an uneaten pot roast from the night
the husband spoke of the other’s body,
a sacrifice. The way pump-jacks move
erotic & slammed to kissing, the gentle
illusion seas make of shorelines, a return
to idiocy, the lull of again & again.
Even oilfields bloom just right
when you look to soften a heart
broken from aborting a marriage.