by Matthew Merson
A champagne Chevrolet glides
as smooth as an unbroken ocean wave
into my rearview mirror. I watch
as the motorized lightning rod levitates
left and right between the painted lines,
driver-side window cracked open
just enough to make the exchange:
some sweet smoke out, all other
worldly pleasures in. Inside are teenagers,
innocent as lions, mouths moving
together singing the same song
about everything they assuredly feel
at the very bottom of their souls,
her bare feet propped on the dashboard
knees bent, toes pointed as hands raised in worship.
Death is an instant; life the moments.
My eyes tilt forward to gaze at my own
teenage daughter steady in my backseat.
Her eyes watching but not seeing beyond
the white pine and reed grass
passing her window in one blurred unison.
Soon, she will be soaring down
some highway with someone else
she loves, searching for nothing
because she will feel like everything.
I want to tell her that our scars
are roadmaps that will lead us back.
Through the rearview mirror
all I can see is all that we have – this.
Matthew Merson is a high school science teacher in the lowcountry of South Carolina where he lives and plays with his spouse, two kids, and several dogs. His other work can be found or forthcoming in Apocalypse Confidential and The Basilisk Tree.
Emerge Literary Journal 