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:

It’s too rouge, the ratio unto death,
to lure the drones—a dizzy chain of bees—
to drown themselves with any luck
in one of Sappho’s tantrums on the page.

— Daniel Tiffany / “Sappho’s Tantrum”