View Archives by:



Dan Pinkerton

As we drive through the dark toward a Motel 6
my wife climbs in back
to make room for my betrayal. 
Reaching over, I find its hand,

bloated by infection, the ring finger lopped off.
I’ve loosened this part of my life

like an oilpan screw so that something
cruel and viscous leaks in my wake. 

A plow comes flashing out of the night like a spaceship. 
A fox appears in our headlights before crossing. 

Snowflakes tumble over the hood of our car,
whispering the harshest judgments imaginable. 

Dan Pinkerton

Read Bio

Author Discusses Poems