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Tuesday, April 10, 2018


by Elizabeth McMunn-Tetangco

On our way north,
red brake lights
slam like doors.

We see debris
before we see anything

a half-rolled license
plate, glass stars
ground into dirt.

The car is smashed
in on itself—rain
streaks along each

shattered window. A man

down with his hands flat
on his thighs

to see inside,
his shoulders

tight. Someone has put out

The thing I can’t

is the man’s MAGA
hat, clean like it is new,
holding the rain up

off his face.
I have to read it twice
to get it’s not

a joke, and then
it aches

and I’m ashamed,
the afterimage of the hat

and the wrecked car

drifting with me
all day long
like floating leaves.

Elizabeth McMunn-Tetangco lives in California and co-edits One Sentence Poems. Her chapbooks Various Lies and Lion Hunt are available from Finishing Line Press and forthcoming from Plan B Press, respectively.