Deafening, the static of departure.
The dirt road squeals
though you keep under the limit.
A cramped silence refuses to veer --
almost wears the gild right off
as the truck deepens a rut
started generations ago.
Somewhere, a turn was missed.
Somehow, a fatherly confession
about the last piece of pie
had come to mean
there is nothing left to be said.
Once again, I leave home,
pass a good harvest of telephone poles
planted in their ramrod row;
each line was purposely raised,
shoulders its share of tough questions,
tolerates all connections.
Some were not raised well enough.
Dear, we drive for a long stretch, not one word
to shelter us
until, I point and you nod.
as we steer clear of those tiresome warnings
to brave a freeborn supercell.
Cyndi MacMillan poetry has recently appeared in Grain Magazine and the Fieldstone Review. Her verse, short fiction and novel-in-progress resentfully compete for her attention. She lives in New Hamburg, Ontario, home to North America’s largest working water wheel. Coffee and family allow ideas to percolate.
The Ekphrastic Review
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