Poetry: Road Trip by Liane Tyrrel


My daughter,

I’ll tell you what I remember. It’s each time of day but not the day itself. It’s dead deer on the edge of a highway, blackened and unwhole. Trash whirling above like incense. And not the sky except at night on the beach. And not the beach but the separation. You, born distinct from me. A small dog howling, sun on metal and building and building. Hurling along in these bodies. What is this place? Can we be here torn open with snakes in the backyard, fangs bent inward. We are us on a road trip heading south. We are us, arms and legs emptying a car, elongated tent poles and a thin cord stuck into car lighter, air to fill our beds. The waves keep coming. I don’t know how you do it, I said to the body. The salty air. We sleep both heavy and fitful, dog waking us in our dimness, wired and electric. When she chewed the arm off a shitty chair in a shitty house in Crumpler, NC she left bits of yellow synthetic foam in a small pile on the ground. The ground being laminate, made to look like wood. When I woke up to go to the bathroom, it glowed. The automatic light on the shed door lit. You, in the next room.

Liane Tyrrel is a visual artist and poet who writes about a haunted childhood home in her manuscript in progress titled “Call and Response”. Her poems have been included or are forthcoming in InkSounds, Wrongdoing, Amethyst Review, Dead Skunk Magazine, and 2River. She lives and walks with her dog in the woods and fields of NH. https://www.lianetyrrel.com/

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