Orpheus turned back for Eurydice
at the last moment and could not die
or forget that he had sealed her forever.
This road used to be her dirt and grass.
Now it drips with pavement
but, like him,
we will never be able to drive into the sun
to forget what we’ve done to ourselves
even when it’s setting on the horizon,
low and centered in the front window,
asphalt melting into its heart.
We won’t burn if we keep moving down the highway.
Mom will wash my tongue with soap and water
When she hears me say, “shit” under my breath.
So, maybe I’ll go to hell,
or maybe forever is too hard a trip to plan
if I have to complete it by foot.
I dig my nail under the seam in my leather seat.
I keep the child locks on,
Two hours to go until home
Lucy Levin is a bisexual Jew who lives in Allston, Massachusetts. She is a recent graduate of Boston University's undergraduate journalism program whose work has aired on WBUR and appeared in the "Boston Book Festival" blog. On the clock, she mentors students at "Teens in Print," a journalism publication for Boston-area high school students. Otherwise, she's probably binging reality dating shows. This is her first poetry publication.