No Good Bloodsuckers

by Emma Rebholz

On a Tuesday night
we drive to Buffalo Wild Wings
with discount hunger
panging heavy in our bellies.

We know each pothole by heart,
saving a hit in our stomachs
for each one we manage to miss on the way.

I ride shotgun
because I’m the favorite
and the DJ
and the only girl
in this car full of teenage boys,
but we’re all hell-bent
like silver bullets between your teeth.
We’re just waiting for the word to fire.

I ride shotgun
with the windows down
and I blast anything we can scream to;
the line I’m a motherfucking monster
slaps everything we pass at 60 miles per hour.

On a Tuesday night
we are the only ones on the road.
We drive down Riffle Ford—
and doesn’t that sound like a river?
Doesn’t that sound like a knife
dragging through the dirt of this town?

Isn’t hunger just another word for ache?

We test how raw and red
our throats can be
before their sound falls
out from beneath us.

We dance with our heads
thrashing and our arms waving
and with grace nowhere to be found.

We know this is our pilgrimage.
We know this is our jagged signature
down the road’s dotted line.

We’re only screaming to warn you.
We are coming.
We are here.
We have always been here.

Later, we circle this same loop
twice as loud
with our bellies full
and our fangs bared.

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