You were like a hundred tiny spaceships
searching for new life or maybe
you were just a girl who’s been shot
in the back
of the head
and how joy never fit
you or me well
and how blood pooled from your skull
into your lap and onto the floor board
under a night so midnight-like
I thought it was Hell
and how the inmates aimed
your car toward a Dogwood
and let you fly—our death masks
were foreign films without subtitles
and no one that loved us could read us
and the last song sung from your car was too
heavy so I burned it—I will come visit you
Destiny wherever God lands you
and how our story
always burned going down
the throat— memories so disturbing
I Photoshop them all
and now all I have are a few moments
of you in winter wrapped in wool
laughing by a camp fire
and then everything just goes black.

Yvonne is a poet and MFA graduate of the University of Central Florida. Her poems have appeared in Vine Leaves Journal, The Cypress Dome, and The Los Angeles Review of Los Angeles.

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