Christine Lyon

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don't disappear

Eighty-three miles per hour was more than the recommended dose, but our beds don’t make themselves and every line on this filthy road is like a masterpiece [painted without any passion but revered by all who pass] and I wish my tires would just rub them all away.
Instead I wrote a little poem about a little wax doll in organza in pearls; then I strapped her to a rocket and up for the sun she flies.
The steering wheel smells like dust because I’ve spent all morning catching moths. I just wanted one more connection with you before my filament’s shot.
But light bulbs are just glass and I am flesh and bones and feelings.
Besides, you are a butterfly.
So next time I will swallow them whole and hope to feel them flutter, because the roads just make me nauseated, and our beds don't make themselves.