1,386 Readings | 4 Ratings
Driving Drunk, and a Dozen White Crosses
from her purse to her palm. She revs her cemetery
toward a gauzy daymoon, curves our Buick
the hipbend home. Mouthfuls of ditch flowers
purple and passing, cottonwoods spilling
that moon’s confetti, the coal in Mother’s eyes
whitening. This is the fire I warm my hands by.
Clear the deadwood, and you’ll see, nothing but a girl
with a mouth dry of music. Let’s pretend
this is thirst, when a girl might stagger three, maybe four
days before paving her own mirage: a single drop
of oil down a harp string. Rain. Under this influence,
it will take years to learn she’s a room she drags
with her. Wall-to-wall nettles she’s shaped into banjos,
maracas, a flute. When it finally comes time to sit
to the river, she’ll have to finger her throat, snap in halves
all the notes that woman sung into her—
granite specks from hammer to chisel to headstone—
until the horse in her heart stamps its hooves again.
toward a gauzy daymoon, curves our Buick
the hipbend home. Mouthfuls of ditch flowers
purple and passing, cottonwoods spilling
that moon’s confetti, the coal in Mother’s eyes
whitening. This is the fire I warm my hands by.
Clear the deadwood, and you’ll see, nothing but a girl
with a mouth dry of music. Let’s pretend
this is thirst, when a girl might stagger three, maybe four
days before paving her own mirage: a single drop
of oil down a harp string. Rain. Under this influence,
it will take years to learn she’s a room she drags
with her. Wall-to-wall nettles she’s shaped into banjos,
maracas, a flute. When it finally comes time to sit
to the river, she’ll have to finger her throat, snap in halves
all the notes that woman sung into her—
granite specks from hammer to chisel to headstone—
until the horse in her heart stamps its hooves again.
Posted 03/05/10
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