by L.M. Browning, except from Drive Through the Night a collection of poems forthcoming late 2020.

  

 

Ride this life hard

      —barebacked, bone-shaken.

Wrap your legs tight

      —thighs around her rib cage, pounding.

Take hold in the rush

       —fingers tangled in her mane, entwined.

 

Don’t look back,

there is nothing for you there.

 

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8,947 miles later, I know now why you refuse the say the names of those dead-to-you-yet-still-breathing—afraid as you are of the monsters are still under the bed—yet in the silence, you give them immortality…

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