Her
headlights touch the milemarkers,
making
cumulative distance glitter —
all night, my mother pushes
toward St. Louis. Oncoming highbeams,
circular
projections like reel-to-reel
eight-millimeter, blur
the story she’s telling, how her brother
drove
his car into a midnight
express,
& died.
She
checks the rear view,
a glance back in the direction
of
her narrative,
& brakes, pulls to the shoulder, shuts down
the
engine, having exhausted her personal
definition
of history.
She’ll
burn no more fossil fuel
tonight,
nor waste words.
Digging
into her travel bag,
she
drags out a black blindfold,
places
it over her face, a traveling-show
mentalist,
then slumps
down
into the driver’s seat,
into
the valley, where she continues
to
carry us across the Missouri state line.
Already bowing before her will,
the
night turns below the soil to reveal
a
steel rainbow arch. Above the horizon,
she
holds up a shimmer of dawn.
[Sensations
Magazine]