Then, I am dead as the skunk
laid out thin and shredded in the bike lane
and the clouds still slide their swollen bodies
behind the hills and the moon still watches,
feigning confusion, as if after all this time
she does not get the joke.
There was a time my father
would hide my eyes
to keep me from seeing death.
We whirled across the killing
floor in the green convertible,
top rolled down, seats molding
in the rain
we’d been praying for.
I always get what I wish for,
one way or another.
I always watch the clouds compromise
from my bedroom window.
At night, the possums under the house
fight for no one’s attention,
but we give it to them anyway,
banging on the floor.
My father catches one
and deposits it down the road.
The cars have no qualms,
no mercy. I
have always been trying
to cross the street.

On looping sun-
burning walks, I eye

the lifeless skins that line
the asphalt, and envy
blooms in me.
A noble thing,
to die in the attempt.
My father hides his eyes
now, to say his prayers.
And he lets me see.