Metonymy

 

1

The first cars I remember

are cavernous cages of steel,

enormous two-toned eggs with pleated vinyl

benches for seats, a slippery fortress

between the back seat where I ride unfastened

and the front.

This car climbs into sheer black night

gaining speed as it ascends.

Gravity loses hold.

Accelerating

as if we will lift off at any moment, hurtling

as fast as fear.

There are no lights, no moon.

Pedal to the floor, everything races.

I push forward with all my strength,

small hands gripping hard and lifting

until I can see over the front seat:

No one is there.

2

I am always in peril of being given

back to the Indians,

though I can’t remember ever having

belonged to them.

In broad daylight

right down Oakwood Avenue

they ride in loose formation, feathered,

bareback on Appaloosas, hatchets in hand

or drumming on tom-toms

like a John Wayne movie.

I am the only one who sees them coming.

When they flood in through the front door,

my family is caught unaware:

father, mother, sister, brother, sister.

I am the only one who has time to hide.

From under my parents’ bed, I watch the slaughter:

everyone but me.

When the screaming stops,

I wait to be discovered and reclaimed.

3

Nighttime.  I am in the best place,

the cavernous clawfoot tub,

upstairs apart from everyone,

singing to show I haven’t drowned.

There is a window behind me,

thin curtains tied back on either side.

I turn to see the moon

has gone red and seems to drip.

The water flowing from the tap

has turned to blood,

and I am washed in it

as time winds down forever.

The bible told me so.

4

Over my bed my mother hung

a dime-store print of Jesus walking on the water.

The sky is crayon blue,

the tranquil water aquamarine.

Jesus stands as yet unpierced in snowy robe with

golden sash draped over his shoulder,

open palms beckoning me.

No land in sight, no harbor:

Sky, ocean, Jesus

in a plastic filigree frame

as white as Easter lace.

Surely it was meant to comfort.

But as I watch, I see the water move,

begin to roil, troubling his feet,

and he slips down, grasping the edge

of the frame to save himself,

reaching farther then to grab my hands

and I go under with him.

O, smallest me of little faith,

lost and lost again.