Night Becomes Day Over the West

These ridiculous, Christ-eyed hares,
projected once or twice through headlights,
wet the highways outside Helena, Montana.
We watched for them where battery-operated crosses
threw their bleach over the badlands,
emitting a blank, sedative buzz
that bleared waking sight.

When I did wake, it was to dust
flung over red rock, and surprised turbines
that shepherd it all westward.
I can say I was happy to be spotted
by them, waved down, though I never knew
which border they meant to point to.

About the author

Megan Foley is burrowed in at her home, the southern Midwest, to study poetry. But whenever there is gas to scrounge, and time, she's…

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Issue 23 · November 2015

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