Tuesday, September 7, 2010

fast, heavy Chevy

as a child, i'd ride
in my mother's car
past an old filling station
which sold classic cars
one Corvette, hunter green,
$18,990. i told myself
i'd buy that car, one
day. some day.
almost sixteen, birthday-bound,
my father asked me
what did i want?
i said Corvette, a Stingray
i want a fast, heavy chevy
(or maybe, a motorcycle?)
i unwrapped
not keys, naturally,
but a 1972 Stingray
model, bright orange.
my father has a wry sense of humor.

my first car - a Buick of
indeterminate color -
was crashed into an SUV, then driven
into the ground, but
my college acceptance ensured
my parents' goodwill,
and i finally got what i wanted -
hunter green, spoiler,
T-tops, Bose stereo -
the poor girl's Corvette, but
i wasn't complaining,
i ran the hell out of it -
brought it through Katrina unscathed,
drove 3,000 miles across the country,
only to sacrifice it
to an icy mountain,
along with three of my ribs.

years later, and
3,000 more miles back
to the southeast, my wheels
are my bike,
my legs, my boyfriend's goodwill -
relearning how to live in the south
without losing my mind,
and reconciling eating organically
with going to taco bell in a Suburban.
reconciling how to want
a fast, heavy Chevy,
versus trying to get off oil,
how to change the desires
of the mind?
can we alter them in time?

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