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Black Tongue
Samuel Rucks


A road outside Amarillo 
that traced the plain land 
has now begun to arch and wag — a pitch black tongue — 
stretching somewhere out west. 
 
A ways from New Mexico, 
a car radio picks up plena and reggaetón  
between bouts of static as the driver searches for a station. 
Over the vales 
 
a dark expanse moans in pain.  
The weight of sky on its back 
stirs hot lashes in the belly to accompany the deep rattle.  
Thin streaks of lightning strike  
 
the ground, catching the driver’s eye.  
“One-Mississippi, Two-Mississippi, Three-Mississippi” 
and the void collapses with a shout 
over the radio’s static. 
 
Rain, sheets making up a black veil,  
pelt the ground. The road begins to lap up the car  
drawing it towards a rolling black mouth of a storm  
just beginning to howl.  

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