By Rebecca M. Ross
Thrown, my body sailed
my breath caught,
stalled,
then restarted
as a key of recognition turned in my ignition
(I never expected to land so cleanly
under this massive conveyor of human baggage)
Peering up:
maybe that's a wheel axle
and a rack and pinion bellows
I'm barely holding tight
to roadfilth-coated underparts
and I'm not sure how much longer I'll last
(Who is steering this thing, anyway?)
Find me beneath the chassis
of this great whining chariot
with its incessant sighing
block after block
my body–
discarded
scraping against
the cracked tar
of crumbling streets–
dragging
dragged
so someone else can walk free.
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Rebecca M. Ross is a displaced Brooklynite living and teaching in New York’s Hudson Valley, where she regularly experiences things like trees, mountains, and easy parking. Rebecca’s poetry was recently published in the Dissent Anthology and Rat’s Ass Review, and she has work forthcoming in M58 and Flora Fiction.