There Should Be a God
Sara Eddy
I’m one of three cars in this backwoods cathedral
nave, driving between red pine buttresses, stained
glass chiaroscuro dappling my chrome and steel.
I pass a roadkill fox, posed as if sleeping, trickster.
Smoke hangs in the air and makes a sublime sunset, sent
from thousands of miles west, where acres and homes and lives are burning.
There should be a god, a god of anti-plastic to pull this asphalt, these powerlines,
our metal boxes, exhaust, our flimsy desires up into the air, surround
them with smoke and—poof—legerdemain, leave
only trees, wind, animals in darkness.