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.
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.