I’m dying, everyday, but no one
talks about it. There’re scars
that can’t be stitched. They extend
until the body wants to quit.
I look out from the bus window:
vintage cars, a dozen of different colors.
The road, endless, coaxes thin shadows
from withering shrubs. A truck stop
lies beneath an enormous sky.
Heat rises, becoming the wind that wrinkles
the Stars and Stripes. I tell myself I am
better now, different at least. Truth is
I still look at my history the way
I scrutinize a cut on my palm. If only
I could draw a smile on every pain.
In the rearview a face looks back at me
with questions I can’t answer. No, I’m not
my murderer. Don’t I hide
behind an English name?
It’s ten in the morning; the sun has not
started to slant. The bus will take me
to a canyon. I’m ready
to descend into its depths, a finger
probing a wound.