By Emile DeWeaver

We play

chicken where the brave

stay the course. Frames will twist,

wrap each other in fuck-mad

embrace. No, not

play—too old, too

practical, for games.

We speed each toward

the other, hearts pecking holes

in our chest. She’s gonna

drive through my windshield.

Or, or, or

I’ve driven this long: clouds

hail self-delusions and wishbones

and nothing’s left/right

for us but greasy thoughts

while I’m not-playing

chicken with myself, mad-dogging

the end of the dot-dot

yellow line. Elsewhere she

parasails [insert horizon]. Mash gas

pedal; RPMs shake

me till my lines blur

but, but, but

either she’s laying

rubber down this highway

and our chassis shall become

one, or I’m sailing down

this hot strip till it’s cool, blue

curtains with buzzards thin as pen

strokes slicing the sky. I’m

so, so determined it’s cruel, cruel.

Cruel like once upon this future:

if I changed course and put

the curtains in my

side view and drove one

city over, I’d not see her.

And I’d live

with knowing she’s

not not not coming

because she wakes daily

deciding that’s the life

she can’t live without.

So I crash/So I sail.

Emile DeWeaver is a columnist for Easy Street Magazine and a 2015 Pushcart Award nominee. He is a member of Prison Renaissance, a group of incarcerated artists who through artistic expression experienced a rebirth of the humanity they once lost. These writers, artists, journalists, and stage performers have dedicated their talents breaking the cycles of mass incarceration.