Accident Prone

Upside down on a highway
Broken glass beneath my fingertips
I pull at my roots.

Between windy screams
I hear your voice splinter in zero degrees
Clouds cut sharply the mountains by half
I whisper, is there more?
I want so much more.

Like chunks of dish blond hair
golden weeds tumble through air so thick
it tastes of sandboxes.
It tastes of childhood.

Within our breathing bodies
this warm blood slows until touch
is remorse, collapse is sensation,
longing is the only feeling.

I reach for your cold hands
Break your legs and
cover you with dust.
With the cardboard bison I place you
between cracks in hills
and bury our fears in dirt as dark as night.

When you awaken from the swells of hibernation
I place my hand atop your mouth
Feed you dinner platters of sawdust and sage
Cover your casts with signatures from all your lovers
and we embrace like old friends.

In towns between towns
where forgotten dogs are buried
in beds of dirty drifting snow
You remember.
Cloudy skies catch in our throats,
shifting guts and freezing nerves.

Relentless winds heave memory like black ice—
The tangled wreckage ripping across
miles of lonely pavement.
The way your fingertips transcended skin,
transferring blood from limb to limb.
The sound you made when you said we were through.
The bits of me that stopped moving that day.

I wish to capture all those thousand little deaths,
Suspend them between the advancing dark
and the morning after.
Build sandcastles around us at the Interstate’s end.

Comments

comments

About Anna Paige

Anna Paige is a writer, poet, and photographer advocating for live music culture, visual and performance arts, and the creative class in Montana through writing. More >>