By Claire Hutchinson
the highway would slide like black silk under my wheels,
my front bumper with five o’clock shadow from the bugs.
i’d stop at a single-pump gas station, leave my car while it’s refueling,
and wander toward the red soil horizon.
the dust would cling to my shoes and my legs
like the greedy hands of children, chalky.
the sun would set right in front of me, just as red-orange as the landscape,
and in its absence, i would hide, shivering, two quilts pulled over me.
in the morning, i would watch the sun bleach the sky blue,
and then i’d turn off the highway and into nothingness,
disappear into the dry heat, finally escape all living things’ expectations of me.
i’d sit under the shade of an iron-rich rock formation and breathe.