Published by For Women Who Roar

“I’ll never drive on that road again,” she said,
as if it was the road who killed him
with her tempting curves
and shimmery guardrail waistband.

It wasn’t the unworn seat belt
dangling between
his shoulder and the door,
its polyester tension gone slack.

It wasn’t the eyelids
thin and pale
seduced by gravitational force
after the night shift.

It wasn’t the gas pedal
pressed against the floor,
dirt shoved into her crevices
without her consent.

It wasn’t the rum.

It wasn’t the friend.

To my mother,
Interstate six ninety five
was the murderer,
that villainous loop around our city.

Her hips too round,
her midriff too exposed,
her black tar arms lurching upwards
pulling him to her belly.