May 9, 2012

Brent Goodman

MAPS

The other night I spaced a stop sign
and ran it 60mph and died
but didn’t. What algebra is this?
The night a dusty chalkboard
streaked with moonlight, my life hwy K,
hwy 51 N intersecting K in a near perfect T
like a cardiac monitor flatline, the afterlife
this narrowing gravel road beyond pavement
disappearing into endless juniper and birch.
It was very dark and the signs obscured.
By heavens no screaming headlights
T-boned me into oblivion. Instead
I kicked up a little dust on the other side,
turned the pines brake-light red
and spun around: fuck! The very next night
I witnessed two logging trucks
cross each other north/south like two vault doors
slicing closed the ghost path
I blindly whistled through. Now every night
I approach that frightened intersection
with full attention. Sometimes
I die. Sometimes I continue. But most times
it’s too close to call, the stars
always rearranging their astrologies,
each cloud narrowly missing the moon.

from Rattle #28, Winter 2007

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