The interstate knows the things I have suffered it swallows the air like a mouth giant, gaping, its grey held up by posts a brutal rise to the sky. Like arrows they direct a purpose pointing up, they are lunar without oxygen and without light without a heartbeat or a nerve.
How many birds died here? How many flies and bees and small creatures? their fur bristling as they stared down the noise and the deep need to move quickly forward.
Their ghosts are sitting on my shoulder now and my heart is full with them. We are going underground together and maybe I will be brave and exhume their bodies. I will touch their crumbling wings and pin their rotting carcasses to my chest. I want to remember them, to hold them as a talisman, to touch the flesh of what is sacrificed in the name of speed.
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