along the ghost highway


there are no trees, only cracked eggs

shattered in the lane of oncoming traffic. yolks


smearing over desert shrub brush. ghost 1 says

that the car won’t start because it’s overheated.


ghost 2 doesn’t know much about cars, but she

likes how little brown birds settle on the hood


now that they’ve stopped on the side of the highway

—the way the mottled feathers ruffle around their thin


necks and their little legs shudder, unsure of how to

stand, like a baby’s first steps. ghost 1 fingers through


the knots in her set of jumper cables and wishes

that the radio was working; but alas, even before


the breakdown, it was all static. the shrubland whispers in

the evening, pressing hot air against the shiny green hood


of the MR2. everything’s hot in the desert, save the ghosts’ breath

and the first stars. before ghost 2’s phone quit picking up service,


the GPS said they were only 3 hours from Las Vegas—

which isn’t where they’re headed, but ghost 2 can’t


quite remember what their final destination is, so

there’s no way to be sure. ghost 1 finishes untangling


the jumper cables, watching the wires glint in the fickle setting

sun. it is a waiting game, now. the late evening paints


the two ghosts in burning orange—a great egg yolk

dripping into the desert sands. ghost 1 explains to ghost 2


that now they wait for another car, some spectral body driving

down the highway—metal and skinless bodies in the night. so when


the darkness comes, they sit together on the hot hood, looking at

animal bones in the far distance, stacked up into shrubland shrines


as if a lonely desert angel arranged them all pretty and neat

just waiting for someone to drive by, notice, and smile.