Published by The Santa Clara Review
Oh! How the road
the cracking asphalt
and wet, wet grass
creeping into each
wrinkle will tell
the cars behind us
about how we laughed.
We will write stories
into the air of the car
and out my driver-side
window. We’ll
write how that pillar of smoke
is a pile of bodies doing
a butterfly stroke into
the air and how our car
will end up at the bottom
of the cliff we’re driving
only barely parallel to
And how we will take
our kids to that diner
we passed that was
only staffed by one
waitress. When the time
comes and I am out
of gas I’ll drop
him off and he will
tell me to take care
and I will,
but only barely.
Jaden Fong 