local_library Vanishing

by Jennifer Met

Published in Issue No. 246 ~ November, 2017



To end


Even striving

Onward toward

A perfect point,

A single space less

Obsessed with time.

Corners absent, hump-

Backed hills erased. Each

Forsaken glance of the old

Rearview mirror, with uneven

Spotted and black finish, setting

Stage for an unfortunate scenario

Where the tiny congresses of our

Lives are tic-tacking about to no real

Consequence. It is as if the embrace

Of the windshield is not enough to keep

All the turned and iridescent wings still

Fluttering in the quick breeze from moving

To something grander, and something lovely,

Pivotal, or life—changing… something, at least,

Other than my biting teeth. The guttering road

Ahead, I, too, count up in shimmering sighs. Then,

Wearied of time, I begin to breathe, breathe steady in

The countless tics of an internal metronome, single pieces

Of a full ocean wave. Moments crash. Nostalgia breaks and

I find myself watching the dry, blank road for each individual

blade of grass. I breathe like a trucker: ragged, raw and dirty

Breaths of independence, as I bum up all my significant papers

and throw them haphazardly at the 75mph signs, into the mindless,

Magical expanse spread wide in white-washed sun, changing everything

Bone. The empty rest stops fly by and I grip the steering wheel as dear

As gravity. The dry land curls blue at the edges, lifting. I loved, I see,

Only to imagine a full life before me. In private, now inescapable, breaths

I take in the bent trees, the pebbles like boulders, and laugh at the passing

Side of the highway as I scroll faster and faster up the hill toward heaven

Now nearing the middle…of nowhere, faster and faster…faster…still…to never

Cease or crest, but to watch for other cars, forever vigilant of those precious

Seconds before a collision, mindful of spinning out of control and hitting something

Pivotal. Something life—changing. Something real, or even, more grand… not yet alone

On the exposed open road, but tempted, always, by the hypnotic thrill set before and behind.

account_box More About

Jennifer Met lives in North Idaho with her husband and children. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Nimrod, Gulf Stream, Zone 3, Kestrel, Harpur Palate, Tinderbox, Rogue Agent, Apeiron Review, Moon City Review, Juked, Sleet Magazine, Weirderary, Bombay Gin, the Lake, Foliate Oak, Haibun Today, and elsewhere. Her first chapbook Gallery Withheld is forthcoming from Glass Poetry Press (July 2017). Nominated for a Pushcart Prize, a finalist for Nimrod’s Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry, and winner of the Jovanovich Award, she serves as Poetry Editor for the Indianola Review.