by Logen Cure

She swallowed the map –
interstates and farm roads spread out
like veins under her skin –
all leading in one way or another
to her heart.

Her blood pulses like traffic
and I am pushing the speed limit.

This just proves a truth I have long suspected –
my world is shaped distinctly
like a woman.

She's a different kind of beautiful
at every state line
that will become wrinkles to chart
where laughter has been.

The Shenandoah Valley envies
the way her curves dip and rise
and dip and rise again.

The tapping of her bare feet on the dashboard
keeps time with the undertones of Tennessee.

(Do you hear it?)

She is 4,229 miles of songs we listened to in middle school,
bar-b-que chips she consented to because I like them,
hilarious video confessions,
and countless moments of awe.

She looks at me like every sign that warmly offers

"Welcome to..."

and with her
every state is home.

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