Never Knowing the Way
From the comfort of a minivan to the haunted fields of Gettysburg, two poems conjure the allure of the unknown.
MYSTERY DRIVE
It’s almost dusk. Our minivan smells
We’re of French fries and sour milk.
We’re comfortable here,
We’re sunk and strapped
into our places, ready for a favorite game.
We’re Where to? my husband asks.
Just drive, our daughter commands. I’ll
We’re tell you where to go.
He glides up 340, then spins
We’re down a road so country,
I fear for our return. Cows!
We’re our three-year-old calls,
as if there were nothing so exotic. Soon,
We’re we could be anywhere
or nowhere, the road narrow and tree-choked,
We’re the fences broken. Behind them,
houses lean crookedly, dogs off the leash,
We’re trucks rusted, a homecoming
for weeds. Where now? my husband asks.
We’re Go left, our daughter replies.
We curve toward the low-water bridge,
We’re then creep across
its concrete span, six inches above
We’re the water’s black rush.
The kids can’t see my hands gripping the armrests,
We’re don’t know how easily
we could slip as the sky lets loose, swelling
We’re the river. They’re dreaming
of the next turn, other fields, more cows,
We’re some spooky barn
or skinny guy without a shirt we haven’t
We’re seen yet. As the fuchsia sun
smears itself behind the mountains, our kids
We’re trust Mom and Dad are just
pretending to be lost, that this is temporary,
We’re our wandering on the outskirts
of town, weaving from light to dark to light.
We’re We don’t tell them
we’ve never known the way or the destination,
We’re that this is how we roll, how
we grow—searching together for paradise
We’re through pollen-coated glass.
GHOST TOUR
In Gettysburg, our costumed guide
confers with spirits, gazing like a lover
to the far line of trees, charcoal dark,
where the wavery soldiers gather,
where they wait and wait.
Nine years old, our daughter looks
and listens, craning her neck. Later, she
asks for hunter’s equipment, the electro-
magnetic pulse detector and the recorder
of unexpected sounds. She wants to move
closer to what may or may not be real.
She wants the thrill of discovery,
the shock of life beyond death, every
old building and battlefield unfolding
like a map of sadnesses desperate to be held.
She stalks Victorian tombs and rooms,
urging the dead to reveal themselves
like flowers opening—sun-bright daffodils
and the blood-red rose. She remembers that day
at Lolo’s house when she was four, how
the white orb hovered before her, appearing
out of nowhere, how she did not cry or run,
only watched. We hope that moment
of questions, a back-room window barely
cracked, will never leave her, never close.
About the author
Heather L. Davis writes from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where she lives with her husband, the poet Jose Padua, and their two kids. Her book,The Lost Tribe of Us, won the Main Street Rag Poetry Book Award. She has published poems, essays, and short stories in journals and anthologies such asGargoyle, Vox Populi, Poet Lore,andThe Book of Donuts. She works in international public health and lives for 5 a.m. writing sessions.