My long gray Cadillac sits,
not idling, not waiting to charge
down the dusty roads to make
some deal, some death, some grand
entrance. My friend is dead. He cools
his heels in hell. We used to raise hell,
the dust we left behind enough
to make another earth. In my dreams,
dark and shining horses drag us
through the fields. I wake to the car’s
radio. It croons, He said
I’ll love you ‘til I die. Dead fireflies
on the windshield aglow. His hand
turned the wheel. Now the Cadillac
sits brooding, silent as blood.
I die, consumed by fireflies,
not stars, while grander schemes
kill, fall, and fail to rust.
Early versions of “Achilles” appeared in The Laurel Review and Fire.
Alan May Poet 