Like Snakes on Asphalt

by Holly Day

My father’s horizon was always
Nebraska, he never grew past being
a tiny spot surrounded by miles
of cattle-flattened silage
stunted sagebrush.

I don’t know the names of either
of my horizons, can only guess
at who lives in the row of dark houses
across the street. I am also

an unnecessary pinpoint
surrounded by flat, black asphalt
waves of heat radiating from
crumbling tar.