Betsy Nelson
Gas Station Eyes
(A Sonnet)
Forgotten, the sheltering grove of pines. A gas station
now, tarmac sheathing unremembered earth, lights
humming, iron snouts gurgling gas. Hallucinations
inhabit fog screens in a neon night.
A pickup startles with its cradled prize,
her head loose on the flatbed, legs splayed wide.
Death has removed the white from her eyes.
The doe's gray fur gathers neon in a crackling tide.
You did not remember to look into her eyes,
flashing white when she was alive.
She thought you could not kill if she connects with your eyes,
freezes, gazes, questions, sighs.
Betrayed, she lies under invisible trees, in a militia of cars.
Her eyes have hardened, pushed out the stars.
Bio
Born in Texas hill country, I emigrated to Boston, Massachusetts and
the wilderness of Lake Huron.
I write and illustrate poetry, have been published in PoetryandCovid
and Lascaux Review/Easy Street, with poetry honored at the SCBWI
conference. Several illustrated poetry chapbooks for children are in
progress.