My headlights flashed over a graveyard
on the side of the highway, and a mile later,
a Christmas tree farm.
And a mile later, the forest was clear cut.
drive safe, in memory of Elaine
The sign white and metallic.
Elaine was a towering hemlock,
Or a pedestrian, or an alcoholic, and so were
Ben and Sienna, and Taylor, in loving memory.
Highways lose everyone
in their creation: aimless
night driving. If all those metal signs
were resting at one site,
it would be called a graveyard.
Or maybe a memorial.
We walked into the forest,
flashlight in hand, blinded
by the white shining sign
surfaces, of objective memory.
We could reach out to touch
the metal squares, but Elaine is
no longer a body,
now only hollow air
smelling vaguely of wood chips.