Jonathan Treece
In A Dream Of Slow Moving Traffic my mother is on the side of the highway. A black river flows through the delta of her body; her outstretched hands, wounded feet, and her dull eyes, apologetic in a face sinking with gravity. I call out once from the backseat, but the car won’t stop. Stretched as thin as a rabbit fleeing the hawks and foxes of memory, I hide in dusky forgetfulness near the bottom of brown bottles. I spend hours searching for words I can live with, doing my crossword puzzle in ink on a dream’s dogeared pages. At my window, crows are flocking, waiting to clean the bones for me as I make angel wings in her ashes at 3 a.m.
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