Isiah Fish

The Lavender Shotgun

Eighty-five in a fifty-five
through De Soto;

Alejandro smokes pot behind
the wheel. Billie Eilish buries

a friend on satellite radio
& I’ve already blown my last

kiss to the feather reeds,
to the hummingbird, dapper

in the star-barbed dart
of windfall, to night & its lawless

posse of hoot-howls, the tele-
phone pole’s bandaged hide,

the stretch & sag of wires
down a headlight-punched path

to elsewhere. In the post-flood
road slick, we drift. I grip

the Jesus bar. If I die now—
no time to regret riding shotgun,

or dyeing my high-faded curls
lavender, or for handing my

heart to Alejandro, again,
like a pint glass with a dragonfly inside it.