The Banshee screamed
a song of sirens, chasing us down
the scenic route, out of a state
filled with grape vines laden
with last year’s shriveled raisins,
and lake shores made of unrefined gravel
and severed ******’s feet.

Her shriek descended
on the windshield, a shower
of arrows off of a warring
edifice and the wind whipped
them in torrents, sewing a shredded dress
for her raging and thunderstruck body.

We were sun-burnt
and laughing, at two ponies
jumping 4ft fences and the twenty
turkey vultures circling
a mating ground made of a tree carcass
filled with nests and courting rituals.

The tolls to cross
the border were left way past
the back seat. So we soon forgot
about rain-washed vineyards
and houses filled to the brim
with empty birdcages
and broken porcelain dolls.

And as she drove,
my friend said that one
of our tires was grinding
and that we were 300 miles past
an oil change. But the Banshee
soon lost to the lake
and drown with the rest
of her drunken, scurvy sailors.