March sticks to us in pieces of peeling skin, reminders Of how, in that two-door blue Rabbit, we drove from The Ohio sleet on red and blue lines, rumbling along Edges and curves we had never felt before, the grass Watered silky with sweet tea and Southern drawl. Burrowing into the sand, we became pale diner grits Melting under a dark blue sky already sick with the slow
Drizzle of mucous, but in our bright coats, we devoured Frozen pizza and warm Bud Lite, tumbling in and out Of that salty high-speed washer in a refusal of the flat Towns where our Grandmothers scrapbooked their dying Memories, until we were flung back with gold specks Still stuck in our hair and ears, blazing sandstorms left To saunter and shake their hips across a musty Midwest carpet.
Rosa Canales is a recent graduate of Denison University. She currently lives in Columbus, OH.