by LILY THOMAS
Lovers show her roads beaten to dust, trails rioted by clover. She strokes memories from their minds and follows them down wagon paths left to rot, forest lanes shrouded by pine.
She memorizes bends and turns, hills and valleys. They memorize the curve of her breasts, the planes of her stomach, the incline of her hips.
She has veins of tar, of rock, of dirt. Her last man is jetsam in her wake. Against her tires, pavement hums a lullaby, gravel sings the blues, and dirt is a country rhythm. She stops. The road is behind her.
Grass whispers promises.
