Conner Poff LET’S TAKE A DRIVE INTO THE DESERT
In Las Vegas, the stars
are on the ground, and so blazing
they dim the galaxies above us. The strip burns
golden and flashes ruby
and sits low and stark
against a blank night sky, starker still
against slate-black mountains on the horizon.
You grew up like I did—in the hills
bordering a Steel Town, where lights
went out at eight and teenagers slipped
out bedroom windows; where when
you could see your breath, you could spot it,
posed sideways over your parents’ garage:
Orion’s belt—and the bow tensed back, ready.
Let’s take a drive into the desert.
I want to roll down the windows
so the air can tangle us. I want to map
constellations in the rose garden on your forearm.
Through the windshield, I want to watch
the stars repopulate the sky—like the horizon
were turning on a wheel—spinning the heavens
overhead again. And when my eyes
adjust to the light, I want to see
you there—laughing like a kid
who just snuck out—sparks
popping from both our throats—universe
illuminated between us.
SOME WILL
At some point in the game, someone
will smash a toe when the hammer grazes
a drunk nail. The impact will blast open
a circle of shoulders, folding chairs
flinging backwards from the knotted log
seated center. Someone will fetch the tape
or the first aid kit—whatever they have.
Some will leave home to return, pile
plastic bins in their childhood bedrooms,
take their degrees to the mill. Some
will start that business or coach that sport; some
will poke needles in the bends of their arms.
Someone’s disappearance will be dismissed
due to addiction, and then another, and then
another—and then a farmer’s dog
will find the bones too late. Some body
on the riverbank will be discovered by kayakers,
shoe fished from the canal as evidence. Someone
else will shoot up the cafeteria, and we’ll lower
our heads at dinner even if we don’t pray.
Someone will blow a tire or drop a trailer
from the hitch; and while others accelerate
past, not to be inconvenienced, someone will
stop on the shoulder—hazards flashing,
toolbox jogging over double-yellow lines—
to try and help.
Connor Poff is a recent graduate of the Creative Writing MFA at Minnesota State University. Her work has appeared in Harness Magazine, Appalachian Heritage, Volney Road Review, and others.