Bakersfield, CA
Iris Cai
The entire drive, heavy rain gifts lightning
as a hairline fissure in the horizon.
Sixteen years ago, you shielded
your eyes with a baseball cap — crumpled
in the backseat, away from these roads. You thought
your smallness could hide you from the night.
You had other kinds of armor then.
They gave you a lucky bracelet for your first month,
wiry gold and tooth-marked. Swept into pieces
during an argument. For years, each time
you caught a glint in sidewalk rivulets, you imagined
another splintering.
Half-empty suitcases jangle with each turn
of the wheel. You never know exactly
how much to bring — once, your suitcase spilled its seams.
You packed so many clothes, it felt like
you were packing your life away.
Outside, the dark desert grass is cowless, untouched.
Every tree bent in wretched agony, reaching for
home. You suddenly knew your mother when she stood
in the doorway watching you leave. The clouds
can rain and rain but never touch the bleeding fields.
You pull into a gas station and weep.
Eventually, you gather your keys, unspooling
inside city lights, in the embrace
of a distant mountain. You are headed towards
the sun, a milepost somewhere along the road.
Somehow the sky is just big enough to hold the plains.
Know this, and drive.
This poem was previously published in ONE ART: A Journal of Poetry.
Iris Cai is a junior from the SF Bay Area. Her poetry has been recognized by YoungArts, Poetry Society of America, and the alliance for Young Artists & Writers, and is published in or forthcoming from On the Seawall, Neologism Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. An alumna of the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio, she is the co-founder and editor-in-chief of Eucalyptus Lit. When she’s not writing, Iris plays piano and takes too many pictures of her cat.
