fifteen years ago more or less my father killed a man on the road with his car of course to him it isn’t more or less he knows the date the time to the minute the pattern on the man’s shirt how blood on asphalt looks only like water lately he’s been repeating himself calling to tell me the same things over and over again my grandmother has died his sisters are ******* there was bone in the ashes I worry he might disappear again as he did fifteen years ago more or less when the road took the man more or less after he died more or less while my father watched more or less or more which is it I want to know because a thing like that can never be both or else it is nothing only more and never less or less and never more more road more black more wet more night less stars less sight more fast more glass less heart less breath less hands on chest more quiet more time more nothing and always more and more and more and more less
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Lauri Anderson Alford’s writing has appeared in Cincinnati Review, Greensboro Review, The Common, Willow Springs, Meridian, and elsewhere. She lives in Auburn, Alabama, with her husband and sons. Visit her online at www.lauriandersonalford.com.