Julia Ingalls

ALT An excerpt from "Toward Bakersfield" by Brendan Constantine I Because the road comes without calling it, head low like it doesn’t want trouble but really does, and the bright cars, with faces like their owners, want to witness that trouble, want nothing more, I think we should pull over, lie down in oleander, until the road goes away. II There is no past until you pass it, until the edges curl. It’s why we burn photographs. Every Fall I’m astonished by two things. First, it’s Fall. And second, that I can’t pay to sleep on a shoulder. And then the road shows up, filthy and not listening. Even if I turn around, even if I take back all my steps it won’t end with me. III Tonight, the radio says the moon will be green. It says nothing, however, about the stars, whether they’ll act accordingly.