Gerald Cedillo -Poetry
Occasionally, country roads back home
allowed a quiet somewhat-peace
after we quarreled. Bodies loosely swaying
in their seats, words hurled
to pothole rhythms, lean gravel shoulders.
We’d push through a fog that became
a rain that shared our intensity. As if
the earth and her oceans were a fishbowl
we had knocked off a table.
Ghost lights across primordial landforms.
Streaked moonbeams. The green-black
night drowned and the weight of the car,
its entire heft, lifted atop a hydroplane.