Our Lady of the Highways

Find, if you can, the brightest stars
her right shoulder, the toe of her sandaled left foot,
one on each of her hips.
Her halo has gone out. Stars flicker on and off
from her lifted wrist, her right hand raised,

index finger linking with thumb,
blessing the shining northbound lane.
How exhausting to be collimated.
She does not disperse,
intended for eternity.

I wish on slow nights,
she could extend her arm,
hitch a ride north
to the Waffle House, where the syrup flows
for twenty-four hours without stopping.

Give her a smaller miracle, lacking
loaves and fishes. Lacking a wedding without wine.
Let her heal the pothole just before the bridge.
She’s stranded in a field on a hill,
waiting for the moon to make

the cars into parallel arcs, star paths,
riding a silver-scratched record.
A turntable made out of the earth,
and she’s in the center,
unturning, unwavering.

Sarah Ann Winn HeadshotSarah Ann Winn lives in Fairfax, Virginia. “Our Lady of the Highways” is part of an ongoing set of poems about travel she has written. Another poem in that set, “My 95,” will appear in the upcoming issue 6 of Apeiron Review. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Nassau Review, Portland Review, San Pedro River Review, and Two Thirds North among others. Visit her at http://bluebirdwords.com or follow her @blueaisling on Twitter.