by Michelle Turner

Back then I thought

interstate meant no-state,
unlikely and lonely

as deep space.

I slept with one fear:
the falling away

of motion, a pink shell
pressed to my ear,

then broken.

Our ’83 Chevy,
brown on brown,

jerked to the shoulder,
shaking.

This was the first poem:

a window rolling down,
disappearing. Look:

(the officer coughed)

headlights, taillights, stars,
so soon, streaming.

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Michelle Turner’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Spoon River Poetry Review, Southern Humanities Review, Slice, Sixth Finch, The Greensboro Review, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA from the University of Michigan and lives in Fort Collins, Colorado, where she works as an editor, writing coach, and academic advisor. Read more at michellemturner.com.