Hannah Brooks-Motl

High Road

I drove my Corolla down the high road; silver fields beside it; darkness ahead; oh fire behind; like niceness unfastened; I bent my head; in intricate dawn; the fields brimming; some dark remained; or was lit up; perhaps I did it; from my sphere; fantastic and pronged; I sat with my head; bowed; it is how I have gone through my country; like the road; which cannot believe its own height; I have felt warm in my car; unable to turn my music down; night wind rushing words from my mouth; for it is dumb to be right; even as trees grow with darkness; complicit; turning the earth as I have been turned; turning myself; from its labor; blame cleans my brow; so smoothly the road spills like a lie; through somebody; a girl was; through my face; I roll the windows up; down; and when I take a curve; I take it away; into my mind; I open my mouth; thinking I’ll speak; but dim houses stream faster; like painting; or a puddle of chilled water; I put my hand in; the autumn is thick; like everyone else; am I incredible; or inside of it.

Hannah Brooks-Motl's poetry and criticism has been published in The New Republic, The Kenyon Review, Sixth Finch, and La Fovea. She lives in a village in Western Massachusetts.

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