To preserve us means not
bones found deep underground
by future archaeologists.

We fucked in this car no way
can we sell it. Steer away
from extinction. Navigating

backroads at sundown, you say
when I drink I become a meteor
growing larger in the sky–

open
bar, a silver raptor
perched on tall
white cake.

The planner
used a knife. The blood
was cranberry
vodka.

(originally published in Columbia College Literary Review, Spring 2019)