Emily Elizabeth Buckley

There is a point on the M6 between junctions 33 and 32

where the 12-mile stretch opens into the ink-black night

and you’re driving through constellations of LED headlights.

The stars out of your window become the beacons

that over-caffeinated drivers navigate by,

like argonauts sailing by moonlight.

Fleetwood Mac flows through the car as the light

from your phone tucked into the cupholder ebbs away,

your partner’s voice dies, and you’re left alone in the dark.

And as you get closer to the end of the midnight stretch,

you wonder if you’re about to drive off a cliff in the dark,

and end up swimming in the void of starlight.

Previously published: Rising Phoenix Review