By Kaitlynn McShea
at the dead animals on
the crumbling concrete.
They rest in between the blackened road and the untamed grass.
We’re not meant to witness this.
You will turn up the radio
and stare straight ahead,
knuckles white on
the steering wheel.
And you will see a gaping maw out of the corners of your eyes,
Reminding you of things:
Your mother’s lined face while she naps on the couch,
Your husband’s mouth in bed last night,
Your eyes when you looked in the mirror that morning.
Witnesses that are diced into moments and left for crumbs the rest of the time.