The American highway system gives those country towns something to do.
All industry as we set out for Nashville. Then green
and green. Greening all over the window—I’m so tired
I’ll call that stretch Boreal. And we’re parched.
A whole airplane part, a wing, dragged
by a truck one lane over. Large amputation thing.
Never had seen anything like it.
It made your day. And then you saw another.
Plus coincidence. Plus disaster. Plus at least 30%
of everything. A small gift of the Earth-Moon-Sun system:
giant moon, big bear of a moon, a frightening
loom. All these things and: the single drop of darkness,
the shadow of an atom. A winning bitch, at last.
Will there be a tornado? God, please make it a fire whirl.
Syzygy (an alignment of three celestial objects)
is a perigee (the point a satellite is closest to a parent body)
and any two related things, alike or opposite.
And if we pass one more clever barn,
I’m done. If we pass one more thing
that looks exactly as it should. If we Big Lie our way out of the South—
We enter the place of dropped bodies: small-town Comerica:
Go for the white skies, bad blood, good food.
About the author:
Mary-Alice Daniel was born in Nigeria and raised in England and Nashville, Tennessee, but considers Los Angeles her home. She is a Zell Fellow at the University of Michigan, where she writes poetry. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in New England Review, Mid-American Review, Salon, Anti-, and New Orleans Review.