Poem by Krista Sanford
winter of 2014. it snowed from christmas past new years.
buried the first week of january in white.
my trusted corolla and me, braving the trek. four hours freezing into ten.
the snow around my tires rocking me like the ocean with its waves.
the interstate still around me,
abandoned, buried cars giving me an apocalyptic vibe as i glided down i-65.
following the tracks of the truck in front of me,
the only way my tiny corolla could make it through that snow.
my innocent mouth shouting fuck more times than i could count.
seeing muncie,
finding ball state,
turning off the car in front of my dorm room,
letting go of the breath i’d been holding in since Chicago.
six years later and my knuckles still turn white when i drive in the snow.
Krista Sanford graduated from Ball State University with her BA in Creative Writing and Literature. Her first chapbook, fatboys: a collection, was published by Alien Buddha Press in June. Her poems have been published in Junepine Magazine, Livina Press, and Black Moon Magazine.
