Poem 26

I'd like to begin this post with a shout-out to my brother, Brian, who reads every poem. He's written some cool poems in his lifetime, including one about cutting Christmas trees with our dad and a villanelle about forests. Because I had to look it up, a villanelle is a poem with 19 lines that only uses two rhyming sounds among other criteria. I probably should have known that.

I don't know if Brian writes poems anymore since he's busy getting ready to make lots of money as an econ major.

After Spring Break

I-90 as an asphalt wound,
black on the green-gray
of Grant County spring -
we glide towards
backlit college promises
of smooth thighs,
satin hair.

My brother and I,
passengers of spring,
are driving back west
from Spokane.
We sing along with the stereo,
stopping when we hear each other.

The pedal reaches the floor,
but my foot lifts
as if I don’t want to get
back too quickly.
My last miles of college
wait north of Seattle,
and after that,
I won’t have a map.

Looking left:
greening grass and sage brush.
Right: a wave of basalt
along the canyon wall.
March in the scablands
reveals a lifetime.

Our time of life:
twenty-four years old,
twenty years old.
We stretch upward
roots investigating the depths,
no thoughts of August chaff.