In West Virginia
Maggie Glover

Each morning was a fresh, blue breakdown.
I perfected my skills of isolation among those hills,
the splash back of creeks and muddied snow drifts.
I had enough money, but not enough money. I learned
the word “holler” and made friends with a boy who was born into one,
his pin-cushion eyes haunted by whatever took longer than it should,
which was everything. On the worst nights, he drove alone
on the back roads, ashing cigarettes into an empty can,
swerving back and forth to avoid the whitetails and turtles.
I made difficult choices. We kept in touch.

©