Our Last Vacation

I read in the back seat until I was sick.
There was the radio but we didn't sing,
there were maps, a direction to head in.
A cold motel room with gray blankets
could belong to any bed but never anyone.
We rode an elevator down so deep
the earth could only freeze and glisten.
We walked between hard walls of caves
and in unison we turned our headlamps and stood
still as skeletons as the guide said this could be
the only time you will ever see true darkness.
We went to mass at a church that wasn't ours.
Between the rows of pews, on our knees, our eyes
shut tight. Body of Christ, blood of Christ,
so dark it could have been another life.

Amanda Jane McConnon is pursuing her MFA at New York University. She also waits tables and interns for Late Night Library. Her poems have appeared in Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art, Used Furniture Review, and others. She lives in New Jersey. (

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761