THE AMBULANCE OUTSIDE ISN'T REALLY A MOVING TRUCK


The medics positioned the gurney and shut the doors. Is it a gurney or a stretcher? A structure. I wish it didn’t matter I can’t see you anymore. It’s dark and this old town doesn’t believe in streetlamps. The basement floods, so we keep the important boxes on wire racks. The water rises and the little bridges to my heart become impassible. Maybe I’m in the belly of something. You know what happens to the girl who’s swallowed by monsters? Rescue. Yes, it’s the fisherman who finally cuts the thing open, but it’s always been up to her to crawl out of the dark.

 


 

 

Meg Wade was born and raised in the hills of East Tennessee. She recently received her MFA from the University of Arizona, where she served as poetry editor for Sonora Review. Her work has appeared in CutBank, and online at, The Feminist Wire. She lives, writes, and teaches in Tucson, AZ.