A journal of narrative writing.
Driving Through Louisiana, Christmas Day, 2002

All things silent then, the forest mindful in its worship while
abandoned trailers haunt the land and make vigil of lives

once led, together and at home. Armadillos hunker
between the shadows. From the back seat, I count white wooden crosses.

What is here is everywhere: The irreversible, the small, the insubordinate.
man, woman, son. The dog with a lowered head, the barren tree. We travel

at a speed which works in a country waging war.
Which works for a boy in a military beret, his fate weighing in

on a curious scale that no small man can teeter. If it weren’t
for the Live Oaks behind their veils of Spanish Moss, I might

not know what to believe in. Can I call ahead to save my place
with God? Our lives, small journeys that rise as quickly as they fall.

I believe in the boy who drives so fast, I would not recognize my life
if we passed it on the way.

So fast I don’t recognize his worried brow in the rearview mirror.
All untouchable subjects liquefy, pour out beyond the realms

of what can be contained.
Lets love spill best from broken hearts.

God, if there is a stream that does not empty
its pain into a larger world, teach my heart to learn its path.

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