In a Dream of Slow Moving Traffic

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.