Immobility

by Lisa M. Bradley

Tar snakes plug cracks in the highway

rippling like manic vipers under our tires

Strewn along the broken shoulder of the road

the tattered carcasses of worn-out rubber

tickle our wheels with frayed fingers of desperation

Far out, over fields of mesquite and cacti

hawks circle a pre-feast with the patience,

the weary vigilance, of those dead themselves

And you keep looking at me with those rattlesnake eyes.

Driving, once flying, is now a slow-motion race

against an impassive blue sky

and a throttling blanket of heat

The furnace breath streaming past my window

keens with the steadiness of a seashell

screaming of loneliness, death, and waste,

screaming of despair, destruction, and hell

And though the sun sears darkness across my sight,

I still can't escape your rattlesnake eyes.

This poem first appeared in Issue No. 6 of Whispers from the Shattered Forum in 2001.

Copyright © Lisa M. Bradley 2001-2004

Photo Copyright © Eric Marin 2004

About the Author:

Lisa M. Bradley is a Texan, despite having lived in Iowa for almost ten years now, and her southern origins are evident in much of her writing, including this poem. She has most recently sold fiction to Brutarian, Three-Lobed Burning Eye, and Night to Dawn, and her poem, "Sun's Stroke," was reprinted in Issue No. 2 of Lone Star Stories.  When she can scrape her napping cat off the style manuals, Lisa edits articles for a political science journal.