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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

something else

as a blue mirrored pillar stands out on the horizon of interstate concrete

I am leaving
have left                      home.


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