by Marcy Rae Henry
we drive softly, before light begins,
rain, fog—
time everywhere but hard to see.
we’re quieter than when you arrived,
already redefining our space.
after i miss the exit, we make a loop
adding ten minutes to the journey.
people say i love you for little wisps and twinges
but i don’t tell you about my bowels creaking
as if an old house. i apologize for wrecking time
and you put your hand on my arm
then help me find the way back in the dark.
trees emerge. skeletal outlines in red light,
blue, purple and emerald against black.
fake deer, big fake presents.
terminals clogged like arteries.
now, we both take cholesterol pills.
but i’m grateful for our genetics,
even if i don’t know what to do with them.
thick and asphalt wet, the air emits amen.
i imagine rain cleaning particles.
imagine the schizophrenic man in his tent
in the park where he’s lived for years
amid smells of burgers, exhaust, pizza.
you exit the new car and wait in the rain
under an awning while i lift your luggage.
we hug and kiss and i give you the bendición.
que llegues con calma y que regreses pronto.
soon, we’re back to texting. thank you.
i’ll miss you. i got through security.
fog thickens the city suspiciously. bowels
want a way out. i take the to-the-city exit.
you are under fluorescent lights, not killing
time. contemplating. how much of our lives
is in the hands of pilots and pills.
how much is remote.
Marcy Rae Henry is a multidisciplinary Xicana artist and author of death is a mariachi, winner of the May Sarton Poetry Prize and CHIRBy finalist, when to go to the Taj Mahal, the body is where it all begins, dream life of night owls, winner of the Open Country Chapbook Contest, and We Are Primary Colors. Her work has received a Chicago Community Arts Assistance Grant, an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship, four Pushcart nominations, and was a finalist for the George Garrett Fiction Prize. MRae is a senior editor for RHINO and a digital minimalist with no social media.
January House Literary Journal 
Leave a comment