Blake Kilgore

Confession on Interstate 295

“Our child is coming!” your expectant lover might have said, so your red hot-rod baby weaved right and left, always headlong, until you slipped behind someone’s grandmom, or another’s just-beginning firstborn, nervous— more now—and their foot slides over the brake and breaks momentum, and then I see a rancorous waving finger, another hasty swerve just […]