by Molly Goldman
I drove across the country with a stuffed rabbit
riding shotgun. I lifted his ear at the red
lights, whispered I’ll pull you
from a hat; death is like a magic trick
and then the word trick came to sound
like my car door unlocking itself.
Since I left, I’ve learned to decipher the logic
of a haystack, learned to slip off my promises
like a saddle. The world is a giant
scar. It goes where I go. I don’t know
how to drive. But I go.
I’m not in love, I’m in a boat.
1 comments:
This is surreal.
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