Pretty Little

and there’s dead mamas
littered on the highway, with 
snapped necks and pregnant bellies. 

Their entrails paint I-79 
with the hue of a pink cardamom, 
hooves still stretching
toward the blinding tunnel of a headlight. 

Lost, beaten, forgotten, 
the mamas lay still like 
my mama. Frozen in time, 
I’ll pray for the mamas, 
while I lay flowers down

at the graveyard,
south of the highway.