Hindsight
My love, let’s watch the emerald exit signs
that beckon us to mystic untrod lands
like Quiet Dell, Lost Creek, Wolf Summit,
the realms of dapper woodland beasts.
Let’s watch the float-away balloon bunch overhead,
how it celebrates our open road in gumdrop tones,
and how the mythic azure of the sky
precisely mimics that blue raspberry soda
we shared outside the Sheetz in Morgantown
back where we left the storm
but let me ask forgiveness in advance
for the factory smoke that will poison our sky,
for the helium bloat that will burst the balloons
so ribboned shreds of latex tumble down
and snag a branch beside a scenic overlook
where trash and squabbles fester, and finally
for me, for just past Walkersville, we’ll get a flat
and I’ll curse, and blame you for not checking the pressure
before we left, though years ago, we vowed to share
all the responsibilities of auto maintenance.
Emmaline Silverman lives and works in Maryland. Her chief passions include origami, Russian literature, and ice cream. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rust+Moth, Yellow Chair Review, and Clementine (Unbound).
Furious 