Highway

Laura Lush
From:   Carapace. (Palimpsest Press, 2011).

It�s a road, broken. Scarred by car wrecks, deers bunting
into windshields. Bits of lives scattered across.

Brute of a highway brooking soft shoulders.
I walk this road. Stop to unlodge a stone. It hurts.

The way nothing has ever hurt. So much of that road
nothing. Yet terror-capable. The very lay of it, bustling

with transports, the incomprehensible speed of life�
rabbits caught middle frozen

on haunches, dithering this way and that.
Bulrushes�quiet and reed-necked, sluicing

the gutters. Fear, like the sky with its rib out. But it just
goes on, flat, tarred---a whippet stretch of long

and black. Not even the sun, orange and fierce,
can tack this road down.

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