V  P  R

Contemporary Poetry and Poetics




Three days in, she had to make him leave.
She pretended to forget, leaning to wave
Goodbye, why she had ever wanted him
To stay, remembering instead the grim
Last night’s business, counting strokes like dim
Tenth of a mile posts on a long night drive:
One hundred one point eight, one hundred one
Point seven, six, one hundred one point five,

License plates with cryptic names, abrupt
Dark tire tracks, veering into the dark,
Then losing count—the point four marker snapped,
Arcs of rubber, radial edges stripped,
Cries in the night. After, she lay awake,
Deciphering the markings on her cheek.


© by Tad Richards


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