04-01-2012, 02:55 PM
As the asphalt melted
into muscles of brick,
her house announced itself,
the windows rattling in the car,
every red stone finding
a wheel to shoulder and surrender.
Five blocks of lumbering
knocked my eyes open.
It is what I remember most
of a trip through Appalachia:
Blue Mountain, rest stops,
and tunnels too long
to hold your breath through, seen
from a pillow curled against the door.
Nothing spelled the end of a road trip
stronger; not the sight of the azaleas
in the yard, the rumble of the garage
opening, the wisps
of cinnamon and sweet potato
that leaked and stained
the hands that lapped
against my cheek.
None of this
could come before
the rattle, waiting
at the end of the highway
like a snake we had
the good fortune to cross.
Written only for you to consider.