america in headlights
in the right direction, at the right time,
sunsets perch inside the rearview mirror,
filling the air with gold-haze, filling all 4883 pounds
of Chrysler Pacifica gliding down the freeway.
Pacifica, Pacifica – a scratch behind each song on the radio
like that itchy distance between wanting and getting.
it rattles along faded yellow lines, or blinks from billboards,
pours from a rusty faucet in the 7-11 bathroom.
‘hits from the 60s, 70s and 80s!’—words only tumble in after
the gunshot has gone off. people on the interstate jostle,
sneeze, doze, from car to car. the spotlight blinks
from red to yellow, yellow to red.
towns reel through the window, assembling and fading
sometimes the spreading Midwest sky glows brighter
than the arches of a McDonald’s drive-through
or a $1.50 styrofoam cup filled to the brim with gold.
certain things shine best in motion – Pacifica, Pacifica –
the plug-in-hybrid powertrain hums a lullaby.
casting anchor, wobbling out, the dust remembers
how blood and gold have always gone together.
myth to cover casualties, myth to conquer,
a dream so big and bloated its echos
hang drably on rusted signs or glittering and graffitied
along Shell station windows – Pacifica, Pacifica.
Pacifica — what moves and what doesn’t — Pacifica
what lasts and what doesn’t. does history remember?
do we? the bones beneath the parking lots and diners,
aren’t shining, aren’t shining.
thunderstorm
if i ever knew you, i would know you inside the sound
of shattering,
for the brief teetering seconds
the air holds us – blind and bristling –
before it shakes, sparks, and cracks us apart again.
if i ever love you, it would be here
in the dark moments between flashes.
when things said and remembered
unhappen
funneling into the veins of the sky.
shattering grasp and slip, the blink
of streetlamps echoing the bursts, buffeted by rain.
if you ever love me, it would be here
when i am invisible
and electric,
the light-stunned blackness
forging us together across reflected clouds
and past the dripping leaves of dripping trees.
your hand fumbles into mine, and i trip in the darkness
feet slapping the wet sidewalk,
we thunder
down the street, blind and beautiful,
before the storm stops
and takes your hand away.
Cymbeline Brody is an English major with a finely honed passion for cats and coffee but a less assured grasp of what to do after college. They grew up in Washington state and still haven’t gotten tired of the rain.