by Jiv Johnson
There are poems laying on the floor
in the front passenger seat
clothes, papers, and bed sheets
are covering the backseats and trunk floor
mom called me to say be safe
dad told me he’d meet me later to unpack
Mount Sterling’s Cracker Barrel billboard
in the rearview mirror
I am scared of street lights.
I am scared of academia.
I am scared of exclusion.
I am scared of filicide which seems to
pervade the mood in my car. I don’t
know what Sterling does to the ones
who leave indefinitely. Does Hinkston
drown me in its waters? Does Lockegee
erupt as a volcano? Does family really—
a green sign says 4 miles to Lexington
and I know I am on I64
but it feels like
as a blue mirrored pillar stands out on the horizon of interstate concrete
I am leaving
have left home.