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.