TO THE WOMAN TAKING A HIGHWAY SOBRIETY TEST
BY ADEN THOMAS
I judge you. I condemn you under my breath. I laugh
while you stumble
to walk a straight line, recite
the alphabet backward,
touch your finger
to your nose.
How deaf from alcohol you must have been
to drive the length
of this two lane highway where sagebrush is all we can believe.
Intoxication never imagined you,
your insect frame, your hair like elderberries.
Cars slow to pass the siren lights.
Your face is the color of the wind.
I think of the sorrow that caused your flight and the creatures
you thought you were leaving to find humanity out here
with sparrows weighting power lines.
They watch you stand and let your head back, your eyes
closed, your arms
outstretched until
the world spins
and crashes down.
Gyroscope Review 16-4
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