
This selection, chosen by guest curator Addie Tsai, is from Bloodwarm by Taylor Byas, released by Variant Lit in 2021.
October Spell in Indiana
Midnight takes a swig, swallows
this stretch of I-65 South. My radio
stations begin to overlay like photos
in a collage—the corners of achy breaky
glued to late-night R&B—failed
self-tuning. Someone’s wished
the stars away. The moon is a crystal ball
in the cinch of a witch’s gloved
hand, my car a captainless flashlight
sweeping these empty curves
of highway. I’m singing but not really
singing, blessing myself with muttered
prayer—Lord cover me
in your blood. Let me make it home.
⊕
I am tapping morse code onto
the steering wheel’s belly-bend when
dust, no, smoke swarms overhead, a fire
gutting the sky of a few coats
of black. A car has crashed into the Jersey
wall, it’s front crumpled like a paper
basketball. Fire folds around it
like the jaws of a Venus flytrap, melts
the paint like acid. As I pass, I see the driver’s
side profile, a black construction-paper-cutout
against amber and sandstone. The flames
snap like a wishbone pulled between my
two fists in childhood. I cross myself—
Lord cover me in your blood. Let me—
⊕
In the near distance, the Meadow Lake
windmills rouse from darkness, giant crosses
in their frozen waves. And then eyes,
each windmill’s solitary red light blinking
to life at once—proof that this land
is always sleeping and waking. The driver in front
of me thrusts a pale arm out of their window,
flicks a still-lit cigarette butt to the cold,
the black and orange of ash and heat
scuttering beneath my car, searching
for something new to spark. The windmill
lights come on, go out at once, hundreds
of cameras recording. My prayer gets lost
in the radio’s mangling—
████ cover me
in ████ blood. █
make it home.

