Yes, the road.

Yes, the road.
Eagle Nest, New Mexico. “People like to drive because driving is actually and symbolically an almost perfect mechanism for escape…there is probably no human being who does not have troubles, real or imagined, from which he at times feels the need to flee.” George R. Stewart.

PHB

My photo
Brooklin, Maine, United States
We own a 1975 GMC Sierra Grande 15 in Maine and a 1986 Chevrolet Custom Deluxe 10 in West Texas. Also a pair of 1997 Volvo 850 wagons. Average age in the fleet is 28 years--we're recycling. I've published 3 novels: THE LAW OF DREAMS (2006), THE O'BRIENS (2012), and CARRY ME (2016). Also 2 short story collections: NIGHT DRIVING(1987) and TRAVELLING LIGHT (2013). More of my literary life is at www.peterbehrens.org I was a Fellow at the Netherlands Institute for Advanced Study for 2012-13. I'm an adjunct professor at Colorado College and in the MFA program at Queens University of Charlotte. In 2015-16 I was a Fellow at Harvard University's Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study. The Autoliterate office is in Car Talk Plaza in Harvard Square, 2 floors above Dewey Cheatem & Howe. SUBSCRIBE TO THE AUTOLITERATE DAILY EMAIL by hitting the button to the right.

Saturday, July 1, 2017

Eva H.D., "Canadian Road Trip"



Canadian Road Trip


We leave Vancouver for hours of trees, meth heads,

rain. My friend Sky is driving very carefully,

after soothing his hangover with Brahms. He is

perilously familiar with this road. Τhe highway

is a chore. The days are copperstained, wedge-shaped,

chipping from the season; I want to stop and live

in every house we pass. I watch the dance of clotheslines,

chainlinks, magpies from my window. I extrapolate.




“You keep finding our future in every little

Podunk backwater we push through,” Sky

observes, as we pass a road called Pumpkin Point.

The sunset is the sunrise, julienned. We sleep

in motels, watch baseball, stuff ourselves

with eastbound kilometres, tinned oysters, tea,

awake to Alberta glittering like frost on a moustache,

the birthday cake sky out of Medicine Hat.




Prairie hills like shallows on a body, hipcreased.

A pair of foxes. A warning sign that is one serif

off of NIGHT DANCER. Humbled trucks and outboards

graining up from the green ground. A dark paper

lake, beams of rain falling in the far sky.

I can see farther than Pete Townsend.




There is ample time to discurse, to skip from

lick to lick, Queen, Nirvana, Biggie Smalls:

space to think eight hundred times from here

to Kenora, Perhaps I will never be enough

like my brother. When I see a needle in the dirt,

I still go, Someone had a good time. I get jealous.

The stereo's yowling Over and over and over.

Do it again. Do it again. Why not? I do it again.




The view’s largesse makes me greedy, grandiose:

I want to be the lamplighter, the fireman, the fryer

of doughnuts. I want to braid midges on the windshield

and sign all the billboards God; I want to be a dressing

gown on a peg in these low houses that have kitchen gardens

made of rust. I imagine Sundays, their religion

oxidizing like that lawnmower, airing out.




Half a day down the road, I can see the weather waiting for us.

I can see the people who used to live here, in their thousands,

ratcheted into history, that decorative ballgag. That suplex.

Their hair, their ahistorical joy, their sloppy lives, canola,

contretemps; nightlong parties and frostbit Junes and broken

nails and wintertime love. Their grudges and fart jokes and statecraft

and their horses. Their midafternoons & their disappointment.

Their good faith. They are the colour of tomorrow's rain.




The fields erase and rewind themselves, grow trees again.

The sky over this, the sky over that; the sky vaulting

over Kenora, grey scrapes of sideways cloud,

faded morning sporting last night’s perfume.

My brother phones to tell me I live in the past –

well, so do the stars. The bickering in my head

going like shit goddamn goddamn shit.

Like I’ve bumped into my internal monologue

on a daypass. I name the birds, the makes and models,

the facts I know: the future is driftwood, ash, dirt:

it is passing through another mammal’s lower intestine.

Where do you want me to live?

My future glints from the petrified forest.

I am a twinkle of sodium chloride in the Aegean,

flightless, grave. The past, my surety, is aglow.




On the rockface north of Sudbury BE NOT AFRAID

ONLY BELIEVE has been blued in big block letters.

I believe that I'm afraid. Does that count?

“If we don't put it on signs on the side of the road,

how will God ever see it?” Sky asks. He says God

like it's a punchline, the way I might say love.

He has bought a bacon sandwich in every province.




The weather disappears, replaced by bridges, and

Port Hope, another punchline. Toronto greets us,

thick and warm, a middle-aged gut, a glut of taillights.

It's a chameleon September, not the colour of anything.

Kids are in the alley or the yard yelling hi. I am still looking

out the window at the foreign country of my own life.

The view is no less alien for all its staying still.

                                                  -Eva H.D. from her 2016 collection, Shiner

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