I WAS MADE FOR MAKING BAD DECISIONS
involving the body, shredded
lip dripping onto the snow, torn toenail
on the sidewalk, making its escape on black antback:
dozens of tiny hunters carried it into the yard of sharp grass.
Blood of me in the bathtub, blood on the bedsheets, blood
in the winter and the summer and the drought,
when the fields caught fire and we were the only liquid for miles
that didn’t flow through metal pipes.
I would get into anyone’s car, stick my thumb
just, you know, wherever. Wherever you want
to take me, I said, that’s where I’ll go.
We drove past the smoke and the billboards
depicting Jesus descending from pink clouds
and carrying an assault rifle. That wasn’t satirical,
wasn’t cute commentary, that was a real thing
somewhere between Alachua County and Atlanta.
And in Ohio there are numerous signs
with tall red letters that say only: HELL.
I spat into the dust beside the husk of an armadillo
when we stopped. Take this, I said.
Take this from me.
The armadillo didn’t stir, but I believed it was grateful.
My spit was full of energy and microorganisms.
My spit tasted like human teeth, and damaged gums,
and also all creation.
The man I was with came out of the gas station,
adjusting his belt. You ready, kid? he asked,
squinting at the fires overhead.
I don’t know you, I told him.
You don’t know me, either.
I put my thumb in the spit bowl of my mouth.
I took my skin and left that place.
involving the body, shredded
lip dripping onto the snow, torn toenail
on the sidewalk, making its escape on black antback:
dozens of tiny hunters carried it into the yard of sharp grass.
Blood of me in the bathtub, blood on the bedsheets, blood
in the winter and the summer and the drought,
when the fields caught fire and we were the only liquid for miles
that didn’t flow through metal pipes.
I would get into anyone’s car, stick my thumb
just, you know, wherever. Wherever you want
to take me, I said, that’s where I’ll go.
We drove past the smoke and the billboards
depicting Jesus descending from pink clouds
and carrying an assault rifle. That wasn’t satirical,
wasn’t cute commentary, that was a real thing
somewhere between Alachua County and Atlanta.
And in Ohio there are numerous signs
with tall red letters that say only: HELL.
I spat into the dust beside the husk of an armadillo
when we stopped. Take this, I said.
Take this from me.
The armadillo didn’t stir, but I believed it was grateful.
My spit was full of energy and microorganisms.
My spit tasted like human teeth, and damaged gums,
and also all creation.
The man I was with came out of the gas station,
adjusting his belt. You ready, kid? he asked,
squinting at the fires overhead.
I don’t know you, I told him.
You don’t know me, either.
I put my thumb in the spit bowl of my mouth.
I took my skin and left that place.
Briar Ripley Page is a writer and visual artist currently based in Central Pennsylvania. They have previously had work published in beestung magazine, Prismatica magazine, and the Random Sample Review, among others. You can find them online at briarripleypage.xyz, and their Twitter handle is @flameswallower. Briar used to hitchhike, and doesn’t really miss it.