L.R. Harvey Poetry

END OF MY ROPE Evidently we’ve miscalculated the coordinates: the end  of ourselves is miles further  than we imagined on setting out. Don’t leave it out: We won’t be back  in time for dinner. And to consider  that tangle once passed for a garden is to admit we didn’t yet unearth  the mother-weed. Wash the linens  and scrub the baseboards  till our knees bleed, in the morning  the newest offspring goes  skittering across the sheets.  There may have been a death,   and it may have been real  enough, but the dead are now  waking us from sleep as they knock  at the door and invite us to come  with them into the dark dawning of a world with always more dying to do.

GATLINBURG And then after woofing a sackful  of fudge we’ll share two scoops  of Krazy Kaeden’s pork rinds,  Extra Krispy, as we pick through  Route 66 signs and mass-produced authentic Indian leatherwork  before settling on an initialed knife  or a cast-iron skillet on our way out  the door to the indoor waterpark,  looking out the window for bears prowling through the tree-line  of signs for antique stores. What’s that?  You think you’re too good for this?  You think the crowded strip of yourself makes some kind  of all-natural, cohesive sense?

FIFTH-WHEEL I used to follow comfortably behind pick-up trucks or trailers loaded down with a frayed couch or maybe a handful  of water heaters. They wouldn’t let  someone transport such a haul, I used  to think, unless they were sure they knew what they were doing. In the ensuing  years I have since acquired a load  of my own and an old trailer, a tangle  of ratchet straps. I click them down  and give it a shake with a half- hearted “that’s not going anywhere,”  like everyone else who hauls around  the odd angles of their life behind them, breath partially held and eyes bouncing back and forth from road to rearview.

COMMUTE Quit kidding yourself: this late  in the game no one gets a full view  of things, windshield fully defrosted.  If we’re going to make it it’ll be hunched over the wheel and hawking  the dotted line through a pinhole,  changing lanes in faith  that if we can survive a mile  or two further down the road  things may yet open up a bit.

TEETERING The alarm has rung too loud for too long to consider even a brief return to sleep. And if what we’ve made of our days till now is a consequence of being wide awake, kicking off the covers is neither too enticing.  But there’s roughly ten minutes where sense is fluid as the water beside the bed, and the dream  doesn’t need to take the stand  to defend itself. It’s this thin- between that needs stretching   like a swim cap till it snaps over  the world’s scalp, the rest of our hours. What could we make of this place if we believed in it enough to dive in?

THIS FAR SOUTH About once every two years belief  sticks overnight and musters up  a few inches. Outlined in white, the woods don't make us choose between forest and trees. Our soles let us know  exactly where we’ve been already,  where we’ve yet to go, and the road  behind the house is hushed  as the schools close—who would dare to venture knowing in these conditions? Over the steam of a packet of quick mix someone says it’s hard to believe there are people out there who live like this all the time.