The Torn-Up Road Richard Siken

1
There is no way to make this story interesting.
A pause, a road, the taste of grave in the mouth. The rocks dig into my skin
like arrowheads.
And then the sense of being smothered underneath a sack of lentils
or potatoes, or of a boat at night slamming into the docks again
without navigation, without consideration,
heedless of the planks of wood that are the dock,
that make up the berth itself.

2
I want to tell you this story without having to confess anything,
without having to say that I ran out into the street to prove something,
that he didn't love me,
that I wanted to be thrown over, possessed.
I want to tell you this story without having to be in it:
Max in the wrong clothes. Max at the party, drunk again.
Max in the kitchen, in refrigerator light, his hands around the neck of a beer.
Tell me we're dead and I'll love you even more.
I'm surprised that I say it with feeling.
There's a thing in my stomach about this. A simple thing. The last rung.

3
Can you see them there, by the side of the road,
not moving, not wrestling,
making a circle out of the space between the circles? Can you see them
pressed into the gravel, pressed into the dirt, pressing against each other
in an effort to make the minutes stop --
headlights shining in all directions, night spilling over them like
gasoline in all directions, and the dark blue over everything, and them
holding their breath --