accident roseanna boswell
Once I hit a man
with my car & his face
was a flat moon-decoy
––glow-in-the-dark
& widening.
Nothing like a deer,
nothing like a person.
There were teeth
in the road.
Or there weren’t.
I imagined it all.
I knew him, or I’d seen him,
or he came out of nowhere.
The road bent around
his limbs, his bicycle
––the night sounded
like a siren & the operator
told me to hold on, ma’am
because someone was coming
& the moon came out
half-masked––
too late to tell.
with my car & his face
was a flat moon-decoy
––glow-in-the-dark
& widening.
Nothing like a deer,
nothing like a person.
There were teeth
in the road.
Or there weren’t.
I imagined it all.
I knew him, or I’d seen him,
or he came out of nowhere.
The road bent around
his limbs, his bicycle
––the night sounded
like a siren & the operator
told me to hold on, ma’am
because someone was coming
& the moon came out
half-masked––
too late to tell.
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Roseanna Alice Boswell is a queer poet from Upstate New York. Her work has appeared or will soon appear in: Driftwood Press, Jarfly Magazine, Capulet Magazine, and elsewhere. Roseanna holds an MFA from Bowling Green State University, and is the creator of Bunny Zine Press. Find her on Twitter @swellbunny posting about feminism and her love of exclamation marks.