We haven’t seen another car in half
an hour on this two-lane road lined
with farms and churches that all look
exactly the same, unraked cemetery
and rusting swingsets set to the side.
With our car shaking in the wind,
we pull onto the shoulder in front
of one of the churches so I can puke
rum and Diet Coke, and afterward,
I realize I’ve been leaning against
a headstone. That’s gotta be some
kind of sacrilege, X says, sticking
his head out the passenger window.
The radio’s on in the car, and the song
cuts mid-chorus so the broadcaster
can say the county is under a tornado
watch. I throw up again, careful not to
splatter the headstone. The air goes still.
X asks, Do you want any more rum,
or can I drink it? but takes the final swig
before I can answer. Y honks the horn
to tell me to get back in the car. I look
across the road at a pasture, where cows
are grazing and a flag hangs limply above
a barbed fence. Y honks again. I watch
as a cloud begins to funnel at the end
of the field. I look at the cemetery flowers,
the glass in the church’s windows.
X says, If you don’t get in this car right
now, so help me God, and throws
the empty bottle so it hits the church’s
siding. Y says, Can they stop with the
tornado warning; I want to hear the song!
and slaps his palm against the dash.