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Between Here and Verdi, Nevada

By March 11, 2022No Comments

by Jill Hemming

We would have stolen
the motel ashtray
and crossed the border,
but the car broke down,
slid into a ditch
and imbedded itself
in dirt and glass,

and stumbling we followed
the edge of highway
to the next dried-out town,
sprung like a weed
scattering worn-out beds
at ten bucks a night.

Inside, the vanity
lit like a circus
row of orange bulbs;
we stood ourselves
in the glass
and sucked in our cheeks
to hollows

and desecrated
the white covered cups
with a toast to
the sanitary three bars of soap,
to the shampoo, lotion,
and empty ashtray,
all lined up
like a bathroom nativity,

and dizzy, we waltzed
to the vibrator bed
where I lay and dreamed
of sedans floating down
on big, bubble tires
with window washer fluid
arching like rainbows
into my hands, my parched hands.