Mourning and Highways | Amy Allison

Mourning

when you were tucked in your grave,
neat as a napkin in a lap,
all words soared off to
some shining tree,
bereaving me

now they’re transforming
into things that hurl by,
things strange and rare,
bewildering the air

Highways

we design the air
with our rapt mobility

balance the moon on a windshield
set wheels to outspin stars

push past speed limits
heedless of our futility

Amy Allison is a Los Angeles-based poet and fiction writer whose work appears at NewMyths.com and The Rose City Sisters and is forthcoming in the quarterly print magazine The Inflated Graveworm. Visit her online at ByAmyAllison.com.