Emmaline Silverman, “Hoover Road”

orange line

Hoover Road

Windows down, wild blackberry dusk:
we’re driving the twisting narrow roads,
approaching the brink of invisibility.
Around these parts, everyone’s mama said
to honk before those blind curves—nothing rude,
don’t smash it like you’re throwing a punch,
just a little beep to say you’re there—but
no one does. We careen over, dreamlike.
We rely on the truck’s tight suspension
and our reaction time, our sly affinity
for survival, like barn cats,
like the houses nestled in the hollows
where the satellites go dead, like the ladybugs
that invade the farmhouse every fall,
nesting in windowsills and burrowing
into pillowcases, swarming the pantry
so the Wonder Bread tastes
like a windshield—and you know
you should squish them, like your mama said,
but this is their home now and besides,
they don’t mean anybody any harm.

 


Emmaline Silverman is a Maryland native who helps build academic databases for a living. In addition to writing, she enjoys origami and her ukulele. Her work has recently appeared in Tower Journal, Gloom Cupboard, Red River Review, and Autumn Sky Poetry Daily.


 

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