How to Make It Over Mountains
From northwest Virginia, two poems on the depths of persistence and the limits of our knowledge.
How to Make It Over Mountains
First, tell yourself: There are no mountains here
even though the evidence of greens ascending
to your left begs to differ. Next, try channel surfing
in the hope that maybe “Eye of the Tiger” will
Rocky-style inspire. Avoid Christian Rock with its
mediocre vocalists and messages that don’t always
fit the medium. Find John Cougar Mellencamp.
Try to conjure up a significant convenience store
memory until he, too, fades to static. Let the
speedometer approach 80 because the last memory
you want if this is death day is a trucker barreling
up on your bumper downhill. Avoid the Siren-call
of the shoulder of the road. Know that the only way
to get off the road is the way you got on it: drive.
Wonder if the Ancient Egyptians were involved
in the pictogram-like road signs featuring leaping
deer and tipped over trucks. Blindly follow GPS,
unless it leads you to water. Realize that sometimes
the circuitous route might be the most direct. Resist
the temptation to run down pedestrians in the local
fancy shopping mall even though they have made
the silly mistake of standing between you and your
celebratory coffee. Realize that everything, even
miracles, can become routine. Hope you said enough
Hail Marys as a child to save you because despite
attempts to All-American Anglicize, your ethnic
roots are showing. You still play to the saints. Your
concept of Grace may not be entirely Protestant. You
know danger and wonder often come together in pairs.
Like the Alpha and Omega, beginnings and endings.
Night Moon in Virginia
The workhorse moon pushes through
Clusters of clouds, its light leaving a
Yellow halo against the white. I didn’t
Take a picture. Instead, I tried to
Memorize the moment. I told
My older son to turn his eyes to
The moon, but enthralled with earth
Or not all that interested, he wouldn’t look.
I took my three-year-old out in his shirt,
No pants, so he could gaze up. He asked:
Where are the stars? But it was a dreary
Night, and the moon seemed alone.
We made out one other light. A star?
A planet? I don’t know enough to know.
About the author
Lori D’Angelo is a grant recipient from the Elizabeth George Foundation and an alumna of the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley. Recent work has appeared inBeaver Magazine, Bullshit Lit, One Art Poetry Journal, Voidspace Zine, andWrong Turn Lit.