Mississippi river. A clothesline. Dry arroyo. Parents travel highways away from, down roads named for cowboys, paying tolls. Cadillacs appear on the horizon buried nose down in the ground sporting tiny fins like Martian antenna. We, three innocent bystanders, just tykes in the back seat playing “I spy”, count license plates from all the States.
These the snake routes of uprooting, mistakes not
really errors just changes on the dance floor as one young mother outgrows her once matched husband, escaping hometown and that mandatory thrust of high school graduation and other milestones, whole generations of
expectations. This, instead, the Route 66 of unanticipated divorce.
Separately, together, they move toward larger politics, new partners' scents. Prince Albert tobacco and dark lit corner tables for whiskey neat, or the shimmy of a new posture in go-go boots with different promise, shaking martinis in a silver bullet. Train of refer madness to unlock the mathematic
trajectory of magic. We hold on, along for the open ended ride.
Then seven more striking siblings beach, strung like fish on live wire line. Rearranged home team and willing cast for talent shows in backyard valley heat. So what did
we inherit here? Whose hands mimic the fingers of one mother who molded dough?
One sister sings a cappella; another swims under water, beyond radar, holding her precious breath. We inhabit occasional anonymous rooms, speak old secrets, revealing blood blisters of dried paint tubes stored in Chinese take-out containers. Old now, rigid forgotten leather of tether balls and Barbie dolls stuffed into stiff red shoes.
Still, we convince ourselves the war is somewhere else, across the water. While remnant casualties stare back at us from passing cars, whole families changing places. Clinging to the map of frayed rope. And so I recognize in myself a hankering for heady smoke and cask barrel drink.
Comments
Post a Comment