the recanting of ternion by kelly gray

Place us in a 63 white Mercedes,

doing a slow swim across an interstate

that looks like every highway we’ve already seen in film class.

Place him as the driver, and even though I lay sideways with her in the backseat,

the triangulation is moving forward.

Don’t look out the window, he says,

stern, rearview.

I look out the window.

I have lost interest as he manifests endlessly unraveling road beneath our wheels.

Synthetic perfume will do that to me,

a view of fields blurred by compulsion will do that to me,

being topped without a fight will do that to me.

I think about what it will be like when we park,

when he opens the door for us.

Sees in my eyes that I looked at the sides of cows,

saw the running of barbed wire against wild carrot.

I did not notice the way his lover asked me with her eyes if I could

be soft as the lines of a tail-fin blown against blue sky,

and I didn’t look down at my fingers

while wishing they had something hard to break against.

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