Stop the Car

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The crooked wooden cross and chipping plaque on 84
attracts the wandering interstate eye
for, at the most, a second or two before
the rumble strips ruthlessly remind
the driver that there’s no time to think about
anyone but himself —
        That there’s no time
to pause and read that her name was Beth
and she loved to read about
“the night of the moonjellies” before bed,
and slept with a purple lava lamp, and until the time
her drunken mother crossed the yellow line
she loved to laugh —
     That there’s no time

to realize she was flesh and not two planks of wood.  

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