Kate Emily Harris
Interstate 95
I see a man on a motorcycle: no coat,
no helmet. He’s just a hummingbird
over the highway, hardly visible
to the cars at night. Really just road kill,
I think. But who am I—I who jumped drunk
off bridges in the dark because I thought
I could taste just a little death, because I was sure
it would be smooth as a bat wing across
my forehead, smooth as the air funneling
me into the water, smooth as river silt
over my tongue.
