Billboard God

By Veronica Silva

The summer he died, the honey-thick heat
melted lizards onto the sidewalk, left them stuck
to the concrete like chewing gum. I drove back
home when he got sick. I counted the possums
splayed out on the pavement, crucified
on the broken white line like the martyrs
of the highway exit. Driving down the coast,
I make a list: red navel oranges with blood-pulp,
discounted guns, hard lemons that grow lumps
like tumors, a billboard god promising salvation
with a phone number. I am reminded—
even the Vatican has a gift shop. Angels sing
elevator hymns after a voice says hold, please.
Every driver in my traffic lane becomes
a caller ahead of me trying to get through
the busy line, cursing at the sun
blinding us through our windshields.

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Veronica Silva is a Cuban-American poet who grew up in Miami, and currently lives in Orlando. She is a senior Creative Writing major at the University of Central Florida. Upon graduation, she plans to continue her study and craft of poetry by pursuing an MFA. She is very excited to have her work published for the first time.