Off-Duty Hearse

The flat roads of home
and the beginnings of rain
spill nowhere into every direction
at the onset of dusk, the blue flax
growing in the ditches. Why is it
no one ever writes about places like these?
I spent a plane ride buried
in a brochure about invasive species
that have begun appearing on the highways,
the absinth wormwood and plumeless thistle
that now grace us with their refined faces
amidst the golden cornfield sway.
Today on the quiet commute, I hug the curb
to avoid the off-duty hearse, whose tired driver
is sighing inside as he heaves the empty dark home.
I think of the turkey vulture some farmer’s daughter
brought to biology class, his bald red head,
how he shrugged dispassionately in his sinister tuxedo.
I don’t begrudge him for his slick carrion neck,
for the way he has evolved to take nothing with him
when he goes. We are all just trying our best,
I suppose. We are all just passing through.

Shannon Kuta Kelly's work has appeared in such places as The Irish Times, Poetry Ireland Review, The London Magazine, and BODY Prague. She is a current doctoral student in literature and Slavic studies at Queens University Belfast.