Milk and meat stoke the furnace. 
Headlights stare back 
from a dark I know and like. 
On the phone at the station, 
my father tells me to stop, 
tells me to listen to the boys, 
but I’m wildly driven, crazy  
as snow, and not even death  
can stop me now. I skid  
through Idaho. Blow past  
Chicago. Swerve through 
Buffalo, my eyes following 
black lines in white snow. 
Wildfires blazing like torches 
in my mind, leaving what lies  
before behind, on my knees 
in the rain: Father, leave 
the porch light on. I’m flying 
past wrecked cars home. 

Lisa Low’s essays, book reviews, and interviews have appeared in The Massachusetts Review, The Boston Review, The Tupelo Quarterly, and The Adroit Journal. Her poetry has appeared in a variety of literary journals, among them Valparaiso Poetry Review, Pennsylvania English, Phoebe, American Journal of Poetry, and Southern Indiana Review.