By Dani Putney

Stephen Crane wrote of my bitter
heart a century ago. It tastes
of three-dollar Merlot found only
in desert gas stations miles
from civilization. What is civilization
but a measure of distance,
this far, that—only x hours and y
minutes before the next stop.

I prefer to suckle my heart outside
city limits, no stops. Bitterness thrives
in the desert, red wine for company.
Have I mentioned how cheap it is
to drink on the road? Driving, my soul-
mate once told me my heart was half-
desert, hers too—together we create
a biome too dry for the civilized.

Bitter hearts like mine and hers
are best deserted. Crane knew this,
so do gas station owners. But the desert
knows nothing of time or distance.
Home is the sand stuck to my tire’s tread.
When I think about leaving home,
my heart reminds me of the wine—
the dirt. I can’t leave what’s half-inside.

Dani Putney is a queer, non-binary, Asian American poet exploring the West. Their work most recently appears or is forthcoming in The Matador Review, Noble / Gas Qtrly, and Thin Air Online, among other publications. Presently, they're infiltrating a small conservative town in the middle of the Nevada desert.