The Crack in the Atlas

On 94, I thoughtOh, the states are two planes, and I am driving up the shape of the border. (We are only colors on the map.) Did you know city lights sink loudly and pulse because I leave the house? Well, they do. Now I am in the flat part where the buildings are cold and look like a semi-truck should be parked out front.

In this hollow car, I am waiting to be chipped into a batch of ice, so I can be the bright puddle of home that I was in the month of the bells.

At the top of the world is the face of the lake where the water looks at a dark sky and remembers.

© Lauren Bernhagen 2012