This poem first appeared in August 2026 in the online journal Granules.

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Devil Inside

I, too, am sad the Earth is dying. Or
maybe already has. I own
my own contributions. I want and waste.
I conspire and consume.

But there is a devil inside me
that feeds on the breathy hum
of the inline six rising
from growl to silver howl,
the kind of sound that makes
you shift in your seat.
Six cylinders agreeing
before the high hiss of intake,
like the road itself inhaled
through a cold, aluminum straw.
That devil rides my right
wrist down, then
the blink of silence,
between second and third,
when the whole world

pauses

before the torque takes hold
and barks at the asphalt.
The dash tach glowing blue,
chasing the redline
to break 7000.

And the devil grabs
my shoulder like a man
who just saw God,
leans out the window, hair
back and howls
at the approaching taillights.
A quick heel-toe,
a rev-matched snap
and pop with foot and hand
and machine doing what bodies
know to do, and we fling
this low slung beast
that fits like skin
on bad intentions
into the left lane and
slingshot past a blur
of silver and red, hugging
the curve until the mountain
drops away, leaving
only speed and the smell
of warm brakes.

This is what the devil’s
been waiting for, the part
that doesn’t matter, the permission
of the already ruined.

I ease off, find the pull-out, kill
the lights and sit behind the wheel.
The ticking of the cooling block
and the devil beside me, lighting
a cigarette, offering me one.

We are quiet for a while, the stars
the same stars, the air sharp with fir
and burning brush. He blows smoke
at the windshield and says you
knew it when you turned the key.

The dark below the guardrail,
the road still warm. The world,
whatever’s left of it,
holds us both.

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Devil Inside is available now at the online journal Granules. Check out this and other great poems and, if you like it, share it on social media.

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Copyright © 2026 Jeff Nesheim | All Rights Reserved
First appeared in Granules.