i drove into the mouth of a shadow-beast.

headlights against flesh--
the rust-bitten pocket knife 
tattooed with the name of stranger--
your name is the color of
a blade flicked open in
the sun-- carve your name
into the steering wheel
& make this journey your own--
we are not born until
we drive into the night sky--
leave earth-- leave ground--
leave limbs--
this road was raptured 
by the atolls burst out 
of the street lamps--
bomb the pavement with
light-- until we escape
the firing range--
the hairy legs of the corn
field in winter prompt
us to run
run 
run
run into the night
with me--
no i didn't want to 
break so much with the
blare of these headlights--
i turn on the radio
to hear my father read
me the same bed time story--
we're suck on the last chapter
but there's never anything more
& the glove box is a toaster
oven for my boyfriend to 
toast white-bread--
he's asking me again why
i can't love him even though
i tried-- have you ever tried
to love someone?
it's the kind of thing
that feels like being driven into
the mouth of a shadow--
i told him i was 
trying
trying
trying
use the car horn 
if you hesitate to get on
your knees before the 
crooked joints of the 
mountain-- the house
with the bright face full of candles
where i have stopped
in another life--
they bake apple pie at
night & cross-hatch
their windows with 
pie-crust-- paint cinnamon
on the door frames--
i know what happens to the trees
when you drive at night--
the contorted
spirited wrinkle
in the bark-- shadow beast
shadow beast
open your mouth so i can
fit the whole car inside--
no one wants to be left
half-eaten--
i want to turn off the radio
but the book has no ending
& the night light my father
reads by turns into a headlight beam
running me over in my own bed--
i'm the type of road-kill
who carries their body off
the street to 
die in the mouth of a tree
turned shadow-beast--
low-growl in the razor-toothed
throat of a gust of wind--
flick tongue across window chimes--
this is what it feel like when 
i drive home alone
across the corn fields--
legs unshaven.
window cracked open--
to smell the fires set by street lamps--
the thick sweat pulsing off
the bodies of
the shadow beasts in june--
write my name in their
torsos with the dulled pocket
knife named by the flea market--
i write
goodnight goodnight--
there's nothing as violent
as light.