The first time we drove to your mothers’

it was fall, and the sun was setting on Kansas,
a face that peeked up from behind fields,
chat piles and Brutus. I remember you asked
if I had ever seen a strip pit and let the answer
dictate the direction we took. I asked
Have you ever done it in a car? And when you
said no, I pointed to the next turn,
a cemetery, and crawled over my seat.

As our bones were pressed together,
the ones below could feel our warmth
and breath. Listening to our noise,
with canals pressed against boxes.
We forgot where we were going.
As your phone lit up, you turned
it over. Some things can wait
and other things can’t.

Julie Ramon is an English instructor, specializing in English as a second language, at Pittsburg State University in Kansas and academic writing at Crowder College in Missouri. She graduated with an MFA from Spalding University in Louisville, Kentucky. She lives in Joplin, Missouri, with her husband and son.

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