Roadtrips

Poetry by Eleanor Carter

Later in June we were separated
once, forced to murmur prayers to
roofs of different buildings. I imagined

your room covered in grass and flowers
and eating cherry tomatoes lying down
in the road. As dusk came the trees

became uninteresting without
light; it was your arms, your shadow
that flourished in the dark. Once back together

we slept in an empty room in an
empty corner of the state. I dreamt of
wrapping your hands around a

doorknob. Growing old. Being
older. And when, in the morning we woke at
different times — light ticking up my

arms like twirling ivy — just
once, just once, I could not care about
pearls or dimes or seconds.

Eleanor Carter is a PhD student in history at Loyola University Chicago.