What’s Left of Leaping, of Grace
Angie Hogan

A rack of ribs juts up
roadside, macabre sculpture
rising from the ditch.
Have you ever felt emptied
out like that (breathless, gut-
less, picked clean)? The car
rolls on, a body disappearing,
but something catches
in the rearview, shifty as fog,
sighs in its bone grate.

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