We are loading the convertible,
the truck—
your face is the bright lure
that catches and pulls me
through the panic.
framed photos, photo albums, photo boxes,
bottled water, passports, insurance papers,
a sleeping bag, phone chargers, canned food
Hands flail. Keys drop. Smoke
shrouds the emerald mountains—
everything is brilliant, lit
from below or from within.
Woods flash fire like a crane’s bustles flaring.
You bark at me, GET in the CAR
and DRIVE.
embers and sparks
exploding from nothing
Easing the car past flames
I murmur to myself, not now, not yet.
Where are your headlights?
I didn’t understand
what perishable meant.
The MacGuffin, Spring 2024