by Lauren Goulette
I will stop trying to bite the hand that tends to me and let the washcloth run between my eyes.
Where there is solace on the hot asphalt and matted gray fur. Where I see myself lying on the road and blistering under the January sun- the rodent who is streaked across the yellow dotted line. When a pink-face stops and swings open their door to carry me into the grass again. Wash the blood from my mouth and tend to my ears once again. I hear the buzz of machines passing by to fade away. I will stop trying to bite the hand that tends to me and let the washcloth run between my eyes. Let the buzz of tires twitch over my paralyzed legs. When my final soul opens its mouth from underneath the sea of maggots enchanting my fur. I see the asphalt.
© Lauren Goulette
Lauren Goulette is an 19-year-old freshman at the University of Wisconsin-Madison studying creative writing, her work has been seen in The Pluvia Review, The Apprentice Writer, Glass Gates, and others.
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