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.


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