The Unintended Consequences of Rear-facing Car Seats

Every memory fettered,

etched in magnetic ones and zeroes,

copied, transmitted, and saved, always saved,

in libraries, shelves spiralling skyward

from mega to giga to tera.

Sun-flecked leaves on the first day of school,

initial toddling steps em-pegged forever,

jay-pegged wedding kisses,

until teardrops freeze mid-trickle

after the divorce is final, or the doctor announces “she’s gone.”

No generation ever had such a repository.

There were paper trails before, yes,

but paper fades,

yellows,

dries,

then burns,

the ashes floating away like the name of your first-grade teacher.

The oldest recollection, some liars insist,

is the blinding crimson of birth;

    others more sincere recall a fall, the zoo,

grandma’s rose perfume as you squirm on her knee.

But the deepest recollection is the recurring sight

of house, fence, telephone pole evaporating in

a jostled blur into the vanishing point.

All while swaddled firmly—safety first—strapped into

the tunnelvision of a rear-facing car seat.

Instant nostalgia comes standard in a life lived in reverse,

clinging to yesterday.

They’re safe but still sorry,

seeing home drifting helplessly,                    miles beyond our reach.

Suicide Sonnet 73 - Sara

It’s not the impact I fear, as I’ve heard that by time you hit the ground,

you’ve already gone mad or fainted—a defense mechanism to avert

the comprehension of consuming, literally bone-powdering pain

too intense for a delicate conscious brain and heart.

Where was this fail-safe before? Why didn’t it kick in three years ago,

that night at the gallery, as you explained how you crafted every piece,

the way you selected the color of each stroke, the bristle on every brush’s tip,

then somehow chose to include me in your exhibition.

I was no Titian nymph, much less a Muse. Maybe Rubenesque, even impressionistic, receptive

to your every whim. I became a canvas—you preferred yours blank—

so I surrendered to your porous eyes. Why didn’t my knees buckle and blood freeze then,

mid-flight, to spare me the searing, soaring stab of pain?

It’s not the crash, but my fear that in those 3.5 seconds from rooftop to sidewalk,

I’ll fall in love another thousand times, but this time, with the plunge.

The Atheist’s Prayer

I never believed in magic, silly card tricks or pulling rabbits from hats, although as a kid

I did see a woman get sawed in half by chemo and radiation and the burrowing sores within her.

No list for Santa nor whispered pleas to saints, I scoffed at voodoo incantations that could

transform mere syllables murmured by a shaman or priest into mystic power.

What deity hears pleas from only a chosen flock? Why is

pride in man such a sin, but the demand for docile worship acceptable?

These questions haunted me from the cradle, and drowned wise

and simple faith in a riptide of dueling tomes and bibles.

But if the proper supplication would let your eyes close just once without clenching, grant

you a single hour of placid repose or a breath that was not shallow or strained,

if the proper sacrifice sent in the right direction would lessen by even an instant

the constant sear of blessed poison dripping in your veins to burn away unholy pain,

I’d fall weeping upon my knees in grateful surrender, and not rise again until vowing to wear

the hairshirt or yarmulke or hijab or ash, and scream Your Name daily, bent over in prayer.

Tequila Sunrise XX

I’ve made this one before, usually after we fought.

The mescal was a last resort, after sampling its co-conspirators:

on whiskey, on vodka, on sloe gin and bourbon,

on SoCo, on Seagram’s, on straight shots of Jameson.

I’d curl up in the backseat,

parked at the perfect angle due east,

windows up to stave off that bitter bite of dew,

the first rays would illuminate my eyelids

like a spotlight on a fleeing prisoner.

I’d contort myself to burrow

my face in the crease of the fabric,

sometimes finding

coins

or keys

or weed

from other forgetting nights.

The throbbing of my head and hot

incarcerating air

would jar me from a restive slumber.

I’d crawl up front,

turn the key,

and lower the windows,

creaking as the battery had

just enough juice

to make me worry that it’d died.

A glance at the resurrection displayed before me,

clouds fleeing before Apollo’s creaky chariot,

bleeding yolks dripping over warehouses and shipyards.

Distant maggot workers scurry onto forklifts and panel vans,

angry anthill come alive like

I’d poured a childhood soda down its sandy hole.

How did I get here, so fast,

mere minutes from carefree youth?

My lingering wistful, remnant hope

is to rest my weary head

and let the pain evaporate like ambition.

But only after I admire the sunrise,

and a sip of your bitter juice,

no salt,

no lime,

just you.