Poem 14

For this post I'll show you the original draft/sketch that I had to try to make sense out of today to post. Sometimes it helps to put a poem away for awhile and come back to look at it with different eyes. You can see how things might work out better or trouble spots a reader might pick up. In today's case, I had to figure out what the hell, if anything, I was getting at with this poem. The original seemed like two or three poems, but that wasn't working. Instead I tried to tie it together by switching into a different speaker. The revised version is first; you can view the original after if you're so inclined.

The Woman from Ephrata

I swear sometimes these are
the oldest tires still on the road,
and the rubber cracking at seams,
the whine, hum, squeal, and shake
is all I have against speed.
I’ll get a better car,
better than this old Chrysler
when he comes back with the kids.

Left here in Grant county
like I’m
some damn road off to somewhere
into the distance.
Like this one-
how it mocks and knows
I am going home
to flies and the radio
catching the edges of stations
from Spokane and Yakima.
The kitchen table
and three chairs always saved
just in case; I’ll eat standing again-
back hurts from sitting.

The ghosts in the backseat
buckled up -they are safe ghosts-
see through that window,
rolled down for breeze,
to the flip-book of sagebrush.
and horses dancing in the fence grid.
And the fence says,
“Stay here.
Know this place and trust my wires.”
There are schemes among the horses.
But the horses can’t talk.
Horses know grass
and swishing that tail against the flies.

With the last half of a tank,
I’m back to the double-wide
with the light on for no one,
getting more important
with the sun down like it is.

Original

The oldest tires still on the road
and the rubber cracking at seams
and the whine and hum and squeal and shake
are all we have against speed.
The damn road off to somewhere
into the distance
and it mocks and knows we
are going somewhere home
to flies and the buzzing radio.
The ghosts in the backseat
buckled up -they are safe ghosts-
and the window rolled
south; the handle is busted.
The ghosts see through that window
to the flip-book of sagebrush.
with horses dancing,
horses dancing in the fence grid.
And the fence says,
Stay here.
Know this place and trust my wires.
There are schemes among the horses.
But without words the horses know grass
and swishing tail against flies.