the car is just scrap metal by the bend
in the highway, where rock meets rock
formation. how a raven first taught us that
a skull is a placeholder for something
fleshed, smeared against the windshield.
look, at the endless sky and each ending
it holds. after all, the impact resonates
like the clinking of champagne flutes after
the dinner party, that unreachable tinkle
of magic, like dying. again, that lonely
stretch of road, sprawled like the football field
punctuated with lawn chairs, tucked so close
that our elbows brush with the wind. where
our bodies tumble, like cargo ships on rough waters.
what baggage do we carry from the morning?
the mourners are the true ghosts here. left
cloaked for reverence, cuddling bodies for heat.
so say sorry. say it was only an accident, each
death we give up in return for a remembrance of
constants. it is the second time. again, I am looking
for where the ground blushes, angry crimson
like the lines trailing down your chest, every
apology hinged on your lips. then spit, the blood
turning the water into its own, something else to spill.
Amanda Kay is a sixteen-year-old, Asian-American writer from the Bay Area. Her work has been published in the Roadrunner Review, Kissing Dynamite, and elsewhere. In her free time, she enjoys drinking caffeinated beverages and walking sandy beaches. She also hopes you have a great day.