Driving the Heat Dome (redux)

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:

. . . my father dug a pit
for the pig roast,
and neighbors spoke prophecy
of dark invasion
beneath the growl of lawnmowers . . .

— Martin Espada / “Cada Puerco Tiene Su Sábado” / Imagine the Angels of Bread