In Dandridge, I buried the duckling,
its eyes cloudy, gray and slick
against a world it would never see.
The tiny head hanging from my palm,
yellow down, not yet feathers—soft
and perfect—covered by
red clay and dry grass.
In the car, you unfolded the map
to Richmond and pressed a red
Bic line up 81 through Virginia.
Dried tear tracks plowed the makeup
on your cheeks. The last of the boxes
stacked to the roof, obscuring
the rear window and pressing the cooler
against the back of my seat.
I pushed an old river stone into the
soft soil and set a dandelion across
its smooth top. When I returned
to the car, you had almost finished
your wine and unwrapped a sandwich.
“I prefer goodbyes in the evening,”
you said, tilting the glass to your lips.
I turned the ignition.
Everything behind us lay covered
in cardboard and clay.