Ride
by Joseph Byrd
It’s funny how you
now want my words
years and computers
later when nothing
but skin was your
thing. It’s funny how
nobody can find that
song you used to sing
when pinned against
the glass of my car,
rare bug that you are,
as I picked you up at
an airport that had
steam coming off its
wings and we kissed in
the same place where
you’d one day say
There are no beds
for us. I felt my face
say no, as my yes to
you raced along a
road where nobody
gets to go, save me,
save you. And those
are the words that
murdered what we
best know how to do.
___________________________________
Joseph Byrd’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Punt Volat, Pedestal, South Florida Poetry Journal, DIAGRAM, Clackamas Literary Review, Many Nice Donkeys, and Novus Literary Arts. He’s a 2023 Pushcart Prize nominee, and was in the StoryBoard Chicago cohort with Kaveh Akbar. An Associate Artist in Poetry under Joy Harjo at the Atlantic Center for the Arts, he is on the Reading Board for The Plentitudes.
On The Edge 