Libby Burton
The morning was thick with future
and spindles ripped from structures
that once held someone. My bright father, you rule over
a finished country. And I promise:
I mean you no harm. We are crossing a single
state, alongside drops of lit trash bled
from raggedy highway bushes. Sleep was a storm
of all things as they never were, and it was yellow,
and it did not come long. Consider how few days are days
that will be etched into your arm. Consider how
this world is rife with beautiful men who break things
casually. Now all parts of you are spilling from a spine
that is simply bone and wet. All parts of me were once
something you had forgotten. Now even the needles
of trees tremble embarrassed, above simple yellow lines
weeping in rhythm as well. What I want now is to be
noticed by cathedralled arms. Because both of us
are broken. Both of us long gone and quiet now.