On the Road to Rumney

​by Alana Benson

​I.
Just past the white cross
that marks where a child
was torn apart by a Honda Civic,
I watch you rub your hands together:
“I hope the rain holds off.”


II.
We, like lizards,
half-dressed and splayed upon the rocks.
I watch a French-Canadian woman
crawl up the cliff above me
while you ask
“Will you teach my future wife to be like you?”


III.
I will miss you in Nevada.
I’ll see the sculpture of your body
carved into every crevice,
every shadow will etch into your brow.
I will race you up the sandstone;
I will outclimb your very ghost.

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