Where I Turn Bad
       

l start thin king of flammable material. the kind
          we buy cheap from India
                    but then I remember my grandfather's story
about a chapel carved out of salt. White steeple. white
          door, white people. We've been here way too long.
                    So when the light changes. I speed
          until you and l glide
                    over the freshly laid road, the smooth road
we fucked into existence. only you
                    are not in the car and the white line that splits
the road in half reminds me of how
          we cannot live without salt. But this all has to do
                    with the road. I light a cigarette. change
the subject. only I do not have cigarettes
          and don't smoke. The road is black
                    li ke someone else's lungs. The cilia grow
hard. like art, from the tar. Sculptures, scars, bread. The road.
          The t urn I made at the light is illegal. But it's the one
                    that brought me
to you. I'm illegal not because I'm too young
          or because I'm a virgin in some country
                    where virginity is collateral for land. or wine.
or salt. a country in which you are not a king or a pirate
          washed ashore a beach whose shells tongue your ear
                    when you're not listening.
You don't kiss me because of this.
          only you do and I like it and I kiss you back. which is how
                    we get the road. The smooth one. A story
about our lips and our legs entwining like jelly forms.
          My tongue licks your salt
                    like a deer. Shhh. I'd be hunted and stoned to death
should they hear. as this culture is not one
          in which this would happen, but one in which a woman
                    can be arrested for carrying too many
vibrators on a Texas highway. Good thing
          I look the one out of the glove box. Pass the bread. Here. I offer you
                    my wrist. soft as yours, see, curved as a doe,
trust me. Though you have and I've broken it.
          Not the wrist. The trust. But
you know what I mean. In the di stance, September
          burns maples into rubies and gold.
                    If you follow
my wrist to my finger, you will see me
          pointing in a different direction toward a sky
                    tossing and turning in diamonds.
This is the way
          I am going.
                    Hold out your thumb
before I change my mind, before the road turns.

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Copyright © 2018 Michelle Bonczek Evory All rights reserved
from Book Title
Kalamazoo Poetry Festival (Celery City Chapbooks)
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission