Above us, a fingernail of moon hooked on black cloth,
Perseids nowhere in sight. We drive the coast north to Monterey.
Lights of the southbound cars—flared nostrils—roll through us,
cloistered as we are in the small Chevy rental.
Signs warning of rough roads fill our vision, then
are gone again. We harvest what we can from the night:
town names we’re suddenly reminded of, stories from two decades back
wandering into conversation: collecting sand dollars
at Morro Bay, freezing on a June camping trip to San Simeon, chasing lizards
through cactus at the San Miguel mission. The labor of memory
halting, gray road a razor strap we travel to sharpen it. But everyone
knows it’s dangerous to take your eyes from the path at this speed.
Why do we risk it? What could it be, really, that memory gives us? That cloud-curtain
drifting in and out of who we were. Faulty, hiccupped, thread-bare.
Tonight, I’d like to catch a glimpse of the falling light, if only to say
I’ve seen it—seemingly too much to ask. We have just earthbound tales.
Perseus was guided to the Gorgon by her reflection, the real thing fatal.
Maybe that’s why we need to lace our present with our past, chew
bitter-sweet fruit of what we’ve known—the Now too high a wattage,
straight shot that presses down hard. Reminiscing is softer,
a weaving, flouncy and generous, the dead laughing once again.
The road in front of us follows coastline, curving left, then right.
(River Heron Review, 8.2)
