That day, you drove seven states,
America's asphalt spine guiding you south,
all the home you've ever known a dying
light in the rearview.
during the lost miles, the long hum
of hours, the electric glossolalia
of crickets, you imagined
all your Loss in bones
at your feet. your father's weathered cheeks.
the sunny grin of youth.
nostalgia the kerosene setting the pile
alight. and you are turning from it,
just another sort of death, so you cry--
each tear a face
each face a reason
you cannot sleep.
no wonder you murdered
menthols on the steps at Lincoln's feet,
the sky hickied by purple cloud
your boy tossing laughs into the wind
you both rattled by the weight of ceremony,
of ephemeral and unexpected
funerals. everyone is waving
bye, no flutter of percussion
in their chests. memorizing the shape
of your back.
Nick Stanovick is a graduate of Temple University, a Babel Poetry Collective alumni, and an International Poetry Slam Champion. His poems have appeared in Spillway, Vinyl, Public Pool, Rising Phoenix Review, Drunk In a Midnight Choir, and SickLit Magazine among others. He’s currently a Masters candidate at Auburn University, where he studies Composition and Rhetoric and eats many grilled cheese sandwiches.