A week after, someone stuck
a pink wrought-iron cross
into the strip of sod along Exit 103,
amidst grass that roams rampant
except during biannual maintenance
by the key club or penitentiary.
Grimy plastic stems twine around
its base, sputtering out frayed petals
at the arms. Blood’s stale, but the drivers
still rubberneck and almost forget to flick
the turn-signal to pass black Suburbans
with decals of praying hands: in loving memory.
These second graves indict the curve and testify:
check the blind spot, sharp turn ahead.
— Coco Wilder