Constellation

The time I set out for Kansas City
with 50 bucks and no plan besides
she would catch me where I collapsed.
The rain smeared thumbprints on my windshield
all night. I drove under funnel clouds, and
tornadoes touched down in small towns along
the road, stooping to pluck a field, a barn,
a house and feed them, bite by bite to the sky.
Flashing cars littered the shoulder, but I
could not stop, pushing ninety and lost.
I never unlearned that disaster.
I still love dizzy and drunk, my dashboard
the north star, throwing myself at the wind.

Todd Heldt is a librarian living in Chicago.