Orchard, a beautiful word I keep in myself.
Like the word Jellyfish. And the word Chimney.
I looked in the mirror this morning and felt my age
like a tremor from a distant fundraiser. My face
dropped in a glass. My cheeks, distant burning ships.
And it is the month you and I have joined together
to not drink. But today I am hung over.
I imagine a small stage in my mind
where I perform precise homeopathic acts,
the brain systems like wild apple trees,
the moon erasing itself with a wet thumb—
Our car is so clean, I marvel that it is ours.
Your father had the wipers and break pads replaced
before he set us into it,
two shy giants locking into their ship.
We drove it to the city, filled with vanity and fear, your hand
on my leg. When I was a child there were always
McDonalds wrappers on the floor. The dog slept on the back window.
When we rolled down the hill
my brother or I would pull the brake
and wait for mom to come back—lady of delicious sweets,
smoking out the window—
the car was always
an extension of her: parent, vessel, the
sticky seatbelts forever released—
And all night I shouted at friends from college. I stood
in the old cafeteria. I could see in the distance, also,
that the world was ending
in dark explosions of feathers.
When I woke up
I drove our car slowly around the blocks
looking for a new spot. I watched the street cleaner go by
like a fast, dumb dinosaur
that eats only carrion.
Driving Our New Car
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