← v14n1, Spring 2015
Poetry · Volume 14, Number 1

Nine Miles outside Comfort, Texas

Not cold enough yet

for snow, but nearly numb

fingers by the time I finish

pumping the cheapest gas,

wishing I felt more

when you touched me.

Wet trees & idling trucks,

a whole shelf of expired

where you pay a hook to drop

grasping for the tail of some

bright half-buried animal.

We keep trying

but I’ve never seen

someone leave this county

with anything softer

than ash in their arms.