The sky was the color of peach skin last night,
the road unraveling to the horizon
as if I could follow it over the threshold
of the smoldering world.
I wanted to howl.
Taillights. The red glow
of Shoprite’s sign.
The dashboard glittering
A broken half-
in the sky’s sequined
thunder. Sky the color of paste.
A cricket sounds
in the kitchen somewhere—
the deep throat of that other world
singing from behind the cabinet doors.
My mind answering
with its own tangled call.
Ann Lovett is a poet and visual artist living in Ashland, Oregon. She holds an MFA in Printmaking from Tyler School of Art and an MFA in Poetry from Warren Wilson College. Recent publications include the Bellevue Literary Review and an anthology, The Writers Studio at 30.