If they chop open my body
after Julia Alter
they’d find the engine
of a ‘97 Grand Prix
120,000 miles and a belt that
screeches each time the engine
revvs. I don’t know anything about cars,
but there’s a sort of resistance
and then a sigh. Almost like how
he had me in the backseat
A little shy and completely naked.
My head lay on the leather seat
eyes staring up at streetlights.
A clammy hand on
my neck as a reminder to stay
a little longer. The other, of course,
under my blouse.
Lost car keys lassoed over my rib cage,
just in time to spot the blue
and red through a handprint on the windshield.
A Now That’s What I Call Music
scratched disc. Dusty
headlights left on.
Allie Stokes is a poet from southeastern Michigan. She received her MFA from Ashland University. She is currently the lead creative nonfiction editor and poetry editor for The Black Fork Review. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Black Fork Review, QUA Literary Magazine, Rockvale Review, and elsewhere. She lives and works in Kalamazoo, Michigan with her cat, Belle. You can find her on Instagram @alliestokeswrites or on X @allie_stokes.