|
I-10, The Signs Going to the Airport
“…Eternity?”
I missed the
beginning of the question.
Time 5:59
fifty-five mph
exit 225
two plus two plus five equals nine.
A cat has nine
lives.
Nine precedes ten.
Ten is the road I’m
on.
One plus zero
equals one.
I’m one driver
with one life.
What if God was one
of us?
I know the radio
shouldn't talk to
me,
but I'm like its
pet; I listen
and don't talk
back.
Exit 228
Two plus two plus
eight equals twelve.
There were twelve
apostles.
Jesus is really
big. Twenty one feet
of neon on the
Westbank;
Just a slob like
one of us.
I can’t sleep
with Him flashing.
Or is it three? One
plus two equals three.
Trinity. How far do
I go?
Three being me,
myself and I.
I’m not talking to
strangers.
I know the voices
in my head.
Trying to make His
way home
Reduce speed.
No u-turn.
Who'd turn back
now?
This isn't a
pedestrian crossing.
Some people just
don't read the signs.
Prepare to stop.
Rental car return.
Is this where I
return my body?
STOP.
A plane takes off.
Maybe I've missed
the ascension.
I-10.
1+0=1. Back to 1.
On the Anniversary of Your Death
A fingernail moon pierces the sky.
With a flashlight, I brighten the sand
and ghost crabs scatter. At your funeral,
the minister spoke of sins, yours, ours,
and only Jesus saves; he wanted us
to be saved, I think, the two back pews.
Had he even ever met you?
He spoke of how you died,
overdosed, not believing--nothing
about your lyrics, how your long fingers
turned a drumstick between songs,
or the softball games you pitched.
On the beach, near the water, I press
the carved wooden box you gave me
into sand.
At your grave, the heels
of my shoes stuck in the wet ground,
and I shifted from foot to foot
not to sink.
After the funeral, our friends
gathered at your new girlfriend's to drink,
do the drugs from your last party. There,
I felt as outside as in your parents' church,
wanting both and neither, to believe
that you were with God or to relive the past,
to forget, briefly, death has no future.
Slipping my letter inside, I light a corner
of paper, watch it burn, smoke rising
as souls are said to ascend. I want
to remind you: of a sleeping bag
on a cold floor, the black potbellied stove
in which we burned our only chair,
of a thrift-store bakery across the street
and the smell of morning bread.
As the embers cool, I scoop the ashes.
Holding the plastic spider ring,
I remember how you said, "Okay,
now we're married," at a costume party,
where you and I went dressed as us.
"Isn't that scary enough?" you
asked.
I toss the ring and ashes to the surf.
At dawn, with the moon visible
still, a pale pinch in sky, I wade
and then dive, seeing nothing
as I drag my hands along the bottom.
I rise and break through the surface
with my fists. Squeezing sand
and shells, I want you to open
on my palm.
I cannot hold
anything for long. I let the water
empty my hands with a smooth wave.
Malaika King Albrecht has been published in a few literary magazines,
including Quarterly West, Exquisite Corpse, and New Orleans Review. Most recently
two poems were accepted in the soon to be published book titled Fire in the Womb:
Mothers and Creativity. She graduated with an MA from Old Dominion University. She has two
daughters and is currently a stay at home mom.
Email: Malaika King Albrecht
Return to
Table of Contents
|