|| Airbags || by Jacob L. Peterson

I am standing outside a Subaru;
the driver’s side door has been removed

You are distant from birth––
there is a copperhead between us

Crossing the channel,
you cry at open water

We wept at the aurora, and stumbled
behind National Cemetery in light purity (pure night)

Another year, I’ll be closer to inevitability,
but today, I’ll have a croissant

Richness of coriander, fullness of spice between your fingers––
this choice to roll the dough by hand call good

The car outside the CVS is driverless, running,
the windows are down, antibiotics scattered across the back seat

Will you take your own hand, five years before
and pull yourself from the service station?

 

——

Jacob Levi Peterson is originally from the South Texas Hill Country. His primary modes of expression are blogging on Tumblr and Facebook, and composing Twitter poems. He currently writes from New Haven, Connecticut, recently graduating with a B.A. in English from Yale.