Road Trip and Other Poems
by Ann Iverson
Road Trip
I’d like to take a road trip down a river named delight, under clouds picked one by one, beneath a sky that knows the past, past the house I rented years ago with a crumbled path and a wall that held the story of how my family moved me in and three weeks later out because I thought the house was haunted and they believed me. I might rent a room with a deer head in the lobby and name the deer, the other side of things. In the morning, I will wake to sunlight on my pillow and a cat sprawled in the window with one paw on the bright side of my life. Then on the barren road, I’ll find a tiger walking backward towards the future down a lane named how could I forget? I could visit the consignment store where my mother sold antiques and near the dusty storefront, I might run into her ghost. I might ask her all the questions I never thought to ask then tell her how nice it was to see her face at last. Yes, I’d like to take a road trip to circle back around to the door that I let love in while the barge sings out its song. I might pull over for a picnic with an owl who hoos a message to the moon and a hare with droopy ears named sorrow one and sorrow two. I might take a road trip to the city named be careful and spend the night swimming in a pool filled with only air. In the morning when I wake again, I’ll be floating on tomorrow. I could drive some more along the river’s edge and run into a love who took his life so long ago. I won’t ask him why; his reasons will not matter but his eyes will fill with water, floating pieces of the sun. I’ll spend the night curled up in a ditch of dusty moonlight while a golden ghost floats over spreading starlight in my hair. The next town that I visit might have no name at all but a lake as clear as yesterday, and I’ll spend hours in the sand writing letters never written and watch as they dissolve while the waves pull in and out. I could always drive through mountain valleys and meet angels on their way to pull someone from disaster then rent a truck and pick up loads of memory, find my father’s ghost shoveling up his share. His hair is sandy grey and his eyes as soft as fur. He might not be aware of who I really am, so I will just remember the sound of heart is here I am. I might stop at the market where they sell hours by the pound then make some bread that calls for time then slowly bake the years and bring it to a friend. Oh, I might take a road trip through a town that caught on fire and find all the pieces that I’ve lost buried under ash. I could drive along the ocean’s edge to a village in the hills and name it there are brighter days ahead. In this town is a giant bird larger than a tree, with wings named how could you and I’m sorry that I did. I’ll drive some more and visit a museum where every painting has a door and a window that I’ll open once I get inside. I might become a queen or a leopard that can fly or simply a woman knitting a road that goes nowhere. Or I might end up in my mother’s kitchen while she holds the plate before me, and my father strokes my hair. I could decide to walk along the burrows of my past and find a lion whose eyes are dark, his tail, a ladder to the sun. I might climb it wrung by wrung and find a brush to paint my way and name the burning portrait I’ll love you ‘til the end. If I tire of walking, I might decide to fly over the houses of my heart where all the roofs are gardens and the sky is lined in gold. I could take a needle and mend the past or sew the clouds together as a quilt to keep me warm. I might get too bold and fly too high leaving what I know and find myself becoming a ring around Neptune. If my wings become too weak, I might decide to swim and meet a whale with pale blue eyes and learn the language of the deep.
Moon Shadow
Once in a Blue Moon
the heart reconsiders
what she has considered
in all her considerations.
Reads again
the Book of Love
folds back the corner
of the most important page.
Twice in a Blue Moon
the heart makes no waves
on the silent sea of sky.
Back to the Blood Moon
In a scarlet cape she moves
as no other quiet can
floating like a ship
across the darkened sea.
She belongs to the night
and the night belongs to her.
What makes her bleed inside
this giant burning globe?
What moves her heart with fortune
from every story told?
Ann Iverson is a writer and artist. She is the author of five poetry collections: Come Now to the Window by the Laurel Poetry Collective, Definite Space and Art Lessons by Holy Cow! Press; Mouth of Summer and No Feeling is Final by Kelsay Books. She is a graduate of both the MALS and the MFA programs at Hamline University. Her poems have appeared in a wide variety of journals and venues including six features on Writer’s Almanac. Her poem "Plenitude" was set to a choral arrangement by composer Kurt Knecht. She is also the author and illustrator of two children's books. As a visual artist, she enjoys the integrated relationship between the visual image and the written image. Her art work has been featured in several art exhibits as well as in a permanent installation at the University of Minnesota Amplatz Children’s Hospital. She is currently working on her sixth collection of poetry, a book of children's verse, and a collection of personal essays.