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
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