Poff - 2 poems

 

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.