One July at 2 a.m.
Speeding down the kudzu highway where Atlanta’s orange glow chokes stars, he forced the '82 stick- shift Toyota too close to its effective frequency. I thought the vibrations would shatter us. He forgot the front-door key and had to climb through our bedroom window. Poison sumac grew on the wall. He attacked the tendrils with his serrated carbon steel commando pocket-knife. Our sheets, always musty, kept me awake as the fan click-clacked, and he again refused to hold or touch me.
First published in Residual Heat under my pseudonym Aga Black.poetry residual-heat