East of Snowville

if it could not be seen, then there was nothing. headlights pierced the black prairie like a bullet. the moon refused to shine—if it blinked it would be consumed by the black prairie & sucked into the charcoal vortex that stole birds from their bushes & rodents from their holes.  the motor whistled like a panicked bat.  torn guardrails jutted their jags toward the road like thumbs.  mountainous spines drowned stars in shadow. as sleep chewed my eyes i heard utah hiss. if it could not be seen, then there was nothing! no security, no safety.  nothing but the zombie snowville night tapping on my windows shouting that i leave. fear leaked like monoxide into my car until all i could breath were the gasping fingers of emptiness threatening to pull me off the road & into the desert hell i’d so vividly created.  if it could not be seen, then there was nothing! no security, no safety.  nothing but the zombie snowville night tapping on my windows shouting that i leave. fear leaked like monoxide into my car until all i could breath were the gasping fingers of emptiness threatening to pull me off the road & into the desert hell i’d so vividly created.

Violet Knight is a young transgender poet and law student living in Englewood, Colorado. She’s a proud Winthrop University alumna, collector of college t-shirts, and has also been featured in the Spring 2019 issue of The Oakland Review.

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