I think that we have driven many miles:
paved surface prior to a country road,
the crunch of gravel grinding under tires,
the earthy smell of fields just freshly mowed.
The loud and rolling cries of sandhill cranes
compete with engine revs, rubato notes
and him, his laughter. Damp with coming rains,
the air is muggy as it swallows, bloats.
His hands were strong when he first held me tight,
his breath against my cheek both sweet and hot.
I dropped my phone as I just tried to fight
the dragging by hair through the parking lot.
I’m guessing he is still profoundly drunk
by how I’m tossed around in this dark trunk.
Karen Shepherd lives with her husband and twoA Sunday Drive teenagers in the Pacific Northwest, where she enjoys kayaking, walking in forests and listening to the rain. Her poems and fiction have been published in riverbabble, Literally Stories, CircleShow, Sediments Literary Art Journal, Dime Show Review, The Society of Classical Poets and Poets Reading the News.
Wanton Fuckery Poetry 