Illinois, Or Iowa
(First Published in "The Mill")

By Nolan Sordyl

There’s a slant of gray light resting on the concrete beneath the overpass where June raindrops burst and melt. A silver Ford Taurus thunders down the freeway and over the corn fields, cutting a crease across broad chest of the continent and in the passenger seat the girl is sleeping, her chest rolling like the bulging storm clouds that might be mountains waiting at the end of the road, and her eyelids are rolled over with fresh snow. At night she wakes and speaks to me through the glow of the dashboard, and her voice sounds like footprints in the new snow, and when I look over I realize that her hair is the black spaces between stars on a winter night, when the air is thin— the silence woven between a thousand notes, and I am the ceaseless thrumming of the wheels against the steaming road, my mind aching for rest.