THE  27Th  EDITIOn

My father shuts off the engine

and we coast

in neutral,

brakes diminished

down, down & down.

In the backseat I can’t scream,

can’t name the feeling—

like treading water in the trough

between waves.

My boy cousins up front egg him on,

as if no one understands

gravity is in control.

Blur green sun & shade

cricket chee unbroken

tire slap asphalt—

the same asphalt, when fresh,

my uncle skidded on as a boy,

coasting his two-wheeler,

and ran home tar blood & snot.

It’s the story our grandmother often told

fresh as this moment,

fresh as these grains of sand & salt

that need to be a shape.

I grip the seat

and the boys shout “Faster, Jim, faster.”