Driving the Heat Dome

Traveling sorts her memories.
Driving to Miami sharpens
her father’s voice—like acid
catalyzing in her ears boring
a ragged chute to her amygdala—
simultaneously black-holing her backward
and shooting her into an uncertain future
full of Get to Know Jesus and Get Your Guns
& Ammo Here billboards. She fights.
She flees from all her ghosts. She barrels
south—under the heat dome.

Tobacco leaves yellow—corn browns & withers—in her wake.

What I’m Reading:

“Nothing besides remain. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The line and level sands stretch far away.”

— Percy Bysshe Shelley / “Ozymandias”