Drove somewhere ultra-Appalachian.
Mountainous. Each dawn cleansed by
a cool wash of smoke. Something about
the America’s Best Value Inn felt like
mortality. A place to disappear
after a short stupid life. Suicide was
more death trap than decision:
mountain roads without the guardrails,
a statistically significant spike in
the number of general aviation accidents,
mysterious fruit. Nothing killed me
so I called you up instead. Walked behind
one of your horses. The mean one.
He wouldn’t allow anyone to put him
in his horse coat. After you pulled me back
I gave up on thinking about death
until the next calendar year. All other bodies
are taken, you said. I felt sort of like
June dewdrops jettisoned from trees or
blackberries soaked in your warm hands.
You’re All Right, Baby
KATE HAYES is a creative writing student at Smith College, where she currently works as an intern for the Boutelle-Day Poetry Center. She previously attended Bates College, where she was honored with an Alice Jane Dinsmore Wandke Award for poetry. Her writing has appeared in Snaggletooth Magazine.