Glazed
Christian Anastos

Lips curled at the corners, 
I’ve something moronic to say. 

in the passenger heat, sun smelting leather to skin, 
a human alloy. 
sealing me in, a moron, a grin 
calves still caked in sand, itchier by the quarter-mile
 
If I lean forward and open my mouth 
will my flesh stay melted to the seat behind? 
will my bare back 
rip right open 
as I, raw, bare myself to the glacier gripping the wheel? 
will it thaw? 
will I get that begrudging laugh that cost me the blood pouring out my back
​as I, slack-jawed, watch it pool at my feet? 

twelve bridges and four cities I’ve waited to speak (we’ve been counting)
I’ve let the sun seal me into this four-wheeled kiln, hurtling 80, with all
-wheel drive, dual-heated seats, and floor mats to catch all the sanguine costs of cheeky speech.
 
I should have been a potter, an artist, or at least a Doctor, 

But bloody moron works for me.

economics major. wearily word worthy. (PO '23)