wildscape. literary journal

kaddish for little deaths.
by Elisheva Fox

the car ride is good. 
the car ride is quietly safe until it isn’t,
like 

every houston thunderstorm,
every dog hungry enough to bite a human hand,
every family reunion where all the hard teeth mask 
as soft jokes.

dad drives too fast and not fast enough.

we pass through pennsylvania, 
by a creamsicle building branded black
over the doorway:

orange blossom laundromat. 

as soon as dad inhales, i smell ozone so i

toss my mind out the car window into
some whirlpooling tumble drum, 
grit powdered with cheap unclean detergent,
debris from pocket treasures,
dirty dreams.

toss my mind out the car window into 
alien wildflowers, dead grass scroll kissing 
cursive stains across my knees as i 
tongue you into shameless bloom on the side 
of this yankee highway.

a horn calls me back, and my 
mother’s filthy question about where we are,
are we there yet?

even though i showed her my map 
fifteen minutes ago —

gone.

you’re gone.

it’s just me clinging just 
me with my sticky dyke fingernails
grasping at any coinslot sanctuary

just me trapped in this fucking car

listening to my father try to bleach 
blank as my mother’s mind
his 

good 

reasons to vote for a clementine man 
who would call this poem perversion
and not just the poem but

also me, and also you,

and also good.

about the author // Elisheva Fox