The Sound of Almost There

Always, I remember we travel by night.
In the dim moonlight,
I catalog the rows (corn, beans,

corn, beans). Mom asleep, Dad drives
in silence (the radio switched off miles ago).
Every few minutes he stifles a yawn, shakes his head

to stay awake, to get us there safely.
I dig in my blanket for my flashlight
to signal to the stars where we are.

But my blanket is warm; it’s tattered,
silky edges confuse my hands, the smooth cruise
of the asphalt lulling my eyelids – the tick

of the turn signal – the last sound I hear
before the kick of the gravel, first kernels
of corn popping on the stove.

Marco Anders

Marco Anders (he/him) lives in South Saint Paul, Minnesota, with his husband, two cats, and two chihuahuas. He received his MFA from Hamline University where he briefly served as a poetry editor for Water~Stone Review. Anders was managing editor for Flash Fiction Magazine (2016-2019) and has been previously published in now defunct journals, Versewrights, concīs.