Abecedarian For My Hallucinations

Asphalt winter expands on the prairie while
Beetles crawl on my steering wheel. I
Consider the seven plagues of Egypt and
Demarcate my mind with lamb’s blood.
Every passing zipped shroud feels like a
Familiar fate, calling to me as Sodom and
Gomorrah to Lot’s wife. Bless her labored breath,
Hallowed be her footsteps there along the
Interstate’s shoulder. I’ll pray to every
Jezebel and heathen traveler who  
Kneels before my rearview mirror.
Lower the windows now, release carbon
Monoxide into barren fields, take
Note of turkey vultures churning
Over ruined roadside flesh, a corporeal
Power I wish to inhabit, my brain’s                    
Quarrels hushed as it transforms into a careful
Rabbit that cannot be snared,
Shot, or eaten, lucky paws never
Taken. Truthfully, I forget my destination
Under this godless sky blanketing the
Vast, empty horizon. I glance back and become
Weightless, barely legible, as thin as
Xerox copy. The dark road
Yawns, its lined tongue reaching for
Ziggurats of salt.

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Chel Campbell’s work appears in Pidgeonholes, The MacGuffin, Kitchen Table Quarterly, Pithead Chapel, and elsewhere. She taught literature and composition at the University of South Dakota and read for the South Dakota Review.