we drive slow like belly crawl- cautious,
looking side to side. the sky is raven’s wing
molten with rust and lighting itself on fire,
over and over. the entire city is out of power,
buildings slicked wet into stillness, storefronts
towering over me with pitch-black, tremblingly
blank faces. no sound for miles but the rain
hammering away, the wind licking at my car door,
and my brother’s soft curses at strewn tree branches,
at the street lights extinguished like dead eyes.
I want to tell him to shut up. I taste blood on my
lips. when I rub my fingers together, I feel dust
creeping its way in through the cracks inside me.
how long will we be this dynamic duo- him, cursing
and pounding and crying, and me, bleeding and
cowering further within myself? even from inside,
the air smells of wet death and loose ends and
sticky-suffocation. and in the middle of the road,
we see our mother’s dark form, crumpled small
and motionless, and sound itself seems to shiver
and pucker. we swallow, blink, shake our heads.
anything but look at one another. he steps on
the gas, branches crunching beneath our tires.
Wanda Deglane is a capricorn from Arizona. Her poetry has been published in Rust + Moth, Glass Poetry, L’Ephemere Review, and Former Cactus, among other lovely places. Wanda is the author of Rainlily (2018), Lady Saturn (Rhythm & Bones, 2019), Venus in Bloom (Porkbelly Press, 2019), and Sugar Weather (Vessel Press, 2020).