Poetry by Madison Bigelow
suddenly I’m thirteen again, backseat of my mom’s Subaru with hazards flashing on the shoulder. The dark road is framed by vignetted oak maples. Edges hiss in the windshield periphery. I try to be gentle but the t-shirt sticks like clingfilm and I thicken into the shape of the car with a peelmyskinoff feeling, heart dribbling out the exhaust pipe. There but not while you reached behind you and thumbed my left thigh, between us only the sound of rolling tires on a road that the mayor swears he’ll fix but doesn’t have the money for. Taillights crimson twist your cheeks. Please, look at me before you get behind the wheel.
