there is one BLT sandwich left in the bag
& nobody will touch it, too afraid of rye bread
crumbling in hand, of something else cracking open in
the engine and dribbling out the exhaust pipe:
a trail back towards what we are trying to escape.
consider: if we drive fast enough, far enough,
it will all melt back into the horizon, nothing more than
another cloud in the rearview mirror.
dad insists that he’s full, full of enough sleep to drive
through the night and into the next decade.
& brother says that it feels like it’s been a century
since his feet have touched solid ground, wants to know
where the next gas station is, where the next house
will be. if it will be nestled in suburbia or if it will be
another lonesome shack sheathed in corn,
slowly being blown away by prairie wind.
mom tears the sandwich apart slowly, methodically,
like how one would remove newspaper headlines,
using only two fingers to keep ink from smearing everywhere.
she hands soft bread and insides to the rest of you,
keeps crusts for herself. you taste the sun in
the tomato slices, mourn the singular piece of bacon
in your piece. dad turns the radio up, rising house prices,
economic downturn, all news bad for digestion.
brother is feasting next to you, and the kid from
the next car over is staring, staring at this family
looking for someplace to stop along on the highway,
trying to leave something behind.
& nobody will touch it, too afraid of rye bread
crumbling in hand, of something else cracking open in
the engine and dribbling out the exhaust pipe:
a trail back towards what we are trying to escape.
consider: if we drive fast enough, far enough,
it will all melt back into the horizon, nothing more than
another cloud in the rearview mirror.
dad insists that he’s full, full of enough sleep to drive
through the night and into the next decade.
& brother says that it feels like it’s been a century
since his feet have touched solid ground, wants to know
where the next gas station is, where the next house
will be. if it will be nestled in suburbia or if it will be
another lonesome shack sheathed in corn,
slowly being blown away by prairie wind.
mom tears the sandwich apart slowly, methodically,
like how one would remove newspaper headlines,
using only two fingers to keep ink from smearing everywhere.
she hands soft bread and insides to the rest of you,
keeps crusts for herself. you taste the sun in
the tomato slices, mourn the singular piece of bacon
in your piece. dad turns the radio up, rising house prices,
economic downturn, all news bad for digestion.
brother is feasting next to you, and the kid from
the next car over is staring, staring at this family
looking for someplace to stop along on the highway,
trying to leave something behind.
Yong-Yu Huang is a Taiwanese teenager who has lived in Malaysia for most of her life. Her work has been previously published by the Heritage Review, Eunoia Review, and The Rising Phoenix Review. In her free time, she can be found struggling with the flute or humming the Doctor Who theme song.