Summer Vacation, by Cindy St. John (forthcoming in issue 19)

To speak/swallow highways you take to
horizontal your fist on the horizon squint one eye

To sink/eat/starve 500 miles in a car you don’t own
with lips that are not your own and a language you have only half-
memorized to get here

To crack/break under the sound of wind
of box fans like no sound or white light or distance

To strum/tap the glass remember the body
sweat in the sheet of stars soundless

To stomp/tip toe over faces/names/tequila bottles

To swim/wade/dive your field of vision infinitely
multiplying the weight of your arms you lived/ died

Break the glass

To fade/disappear into the landscape isn’t that
what you wanted?