a. Driving Home from the Night Shift, Our Mother Listens to Hank Williams’ “Lost Highway”She cracks the window,letting the cold air            slap her awake. Cranking            the radio, she singsalong as she leansinto the burn of Tiger            Balm, her shift,            like her body, a sharpeningof drill bits, the breakroom doors. Soon,            she’ll enter the house            before anyone is awake.This is her timewhen everything is still,            when she could be            anything—a thief,a mouse. Alone,she’ll wipe coffee rings            from counters, scrub            sinks, floors. Love,she’d tell you, is work, and workis what remains            when she leans into            a sleep she canalmost taste, whenour father like the dawn            rises to slip            his arm around her waist.  b. My First Boyfriend and I Slow Dance to Jeff Buckley’s Cover of Hank Williams’ “Lost Highway”This new voice is the oldvoice of wanting            what you already have.            It marks me likepressed hands in wetcement, leaves me            warm against a boy            in a dorm roomdamp with the muskof hair gel,            drugstore rubbers            and knock-off Calvin Klein.This is not romance.This is not a story            of easy need, though            there’s cheap beeron the dresser,rumpled white sheets            on his unmade bed.            Anything could happen—his mother could call,his roommate            could walk in the door, or            we could flinch,dropping down as we inchinto each other, the track            on repeat: Now, boys, don’t            start your ramblin’ round…  c. Encore: Months Before His Overdose, Hank Williams Sings “Cold, Cold Heart” in 1952 on The Grand Ole Opry—YouTube, 2021Here, as if brought tolife, the echo of some            lost world: this skinny            lightning-voiced angelwith his white cowboyhat askew. Like death,            the internet, I’ve read,            is a ghostly well,ever-expanding grave-yard of last breaths.            Is this, at last, what            we’re meant to become—Hank’s blazing eyes,soulful black windows?            He sings and sings,            Byzantium’s golden bird.Or is this Christ’s after-life, gates ajar? Now,            colorless, Hank strums            his phantom guitar.He stares. He blinksand grins. He feels no pain.            Strange beauty in the lie,            this screen betweenwhat’s twice alive butdead, what never ends.            When he stops, I click            back: he sings again.