Behind the house, a rust-eaten
Pontiac settles into weeds and red
clay. The wheels are locked
in a speed-torn curve by a ghost
hand on the steering wheel.
On the back seat lies a mildewed,
blood-stained blanket that held
the boy on the way to the hospital.
And then the twisted journey
through a maze of sharp words.
Why did you leave it in the car?
Loaded. And the rejoinder.
That’s where I’ve always kept it.
Only the dark river sees
the pistol now. Fog hovering
over the river carries wisps
of blue smoke, still pungent
with powder, into the clouds.
Gone is the only word left.
And no one even whispers it.
Months of the bitter chill
of summer fill with glances
searching through the grimy
windows for an escape.
On the warped gray boards
of the porch, a tightly packed
suitcase waits. The sprung-hinged
door stands between them,
their eyes clouded by the haze
of the torn screen. She stares
at the mud-caked ruts of the road.
He scans sunlight flickering
through nodding maple leaves.
Appalachia (near Hazard, Kentucky; still photo from film)
Copyrighted © by Malcolm Glass. All rights reserved.
Image appears here with poet’s permission.
is the author of fifteen published books of poetry and nonfiction. His work has appeared in many journals, including Poetry, The Sewanee Review, and The Write Launch. In 2018, Finishing Line Press published his chapbook Mirrors, Myths, and Dreams; and next year they will release his triple-hybrid collection, Her Infinite Variety.
