I am standing outside a Subaru;
the driver’s side door has been removed
You are distant from birth––
there is a copperhead between us
Crossing the channel,
you cry at open water
We wept at the aurora, and stumbled
behind National Cemetery in light purity (pure night)
Another year, I’ll be closer to inevitability,
but today, I’ll have a croissant
Richness of coriander, fullness of spice between your fingers––
this choice to roll the dough by hand call good
The car outside the CVS is driverless, running,
the windows are down, antibiotics scattered across the back seat
Will you take your own hand, five years before
and pull yourself from the service station?
——
Jacob Levi Peterson is originally from the South Texas Hill Country. His primary modes of expression are blogging on Tumblr and Facebook, and composing Twitter poems. He currently writes from New Haven, Connecticut, recently graduating with a B.A. in English from Yale.