Holly Day writes

Sacrifice

The road is an angry snake, buckling up beneath you

twisting you off your feet and to your knees.

Some people say they live on the road, but no one lives

on the road -- the road lives on you, sucks the youth out of you

like a snake sucking milk out of a piece of wet bread

leaves you dry and old and bony, white-haired and squint-eyed

skin brown and cracked from too much sun.

You might trick someone fresh on the path

that you’re wise and you’ve learned something by living out here

that you radiate past adventures and illicit, no-consequences conquests

but it’s all an illusion, and you’ve become part of the trap.

You’re the bait.

The road is a vicious snake, twisting to both ends of the horizon

and you never know if you’re walking towards a head that will devour you

but you might as well just accept that you are. Sometimes

the road is a snake with two heads. Somewhere out there

is an ocean, or your family, or a broken-down car

with a glovebox packed with treasure

something that might all of this worthwhile, a Capital D Destination

but that’s not for you anymore, now that you’re out here.

These are the impossible dreams that will haunt your campsite at night

as you’re lulled to sleep by the hissing of passing cars

and something else.