That\u2019s the way it happened \u2014
driving into Death Valley,
a crazy idea of escape from
life \u2013 divorce and all<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Death Valley lives up to its names alright \u2013
Badwater, Skidoo, Ghost Town,
Darwin as in some sort of origin,
and Salt Sea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Real seas teem with life. Not here, not in this
desert cauldron where I unwittingly sought
an adventure for three kids and a dog. A
test. Something out of the ordinary.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Poets say that\u2019s the way death happens \u2014
in a fairyland of crystal castles,
the promise of desiccated immortality —
drip, drip, drong<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Death is as prancy as the Eroica
a flirt of false cadences
discordant landing notes
Death scares the heck out of you<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But I\u2019m strong, they say. Still, I should have known by the signs<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The sky. There is no sky.
I look up to where the sky should be and see
a shroud of darkness like God has stretched
a black voile over the yellow plain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The stones
Boulders actually, that magically move at night
with no witnesses, only tread marks in the sand.
Wavy, indeterminate, like the real sea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The valley is a mirage
a stave of medieval neumes wafered
between black and yellow, distant peaks poke
fiery red in the setting sun. We are trapped in ether.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Our road leads on to watery risings and fallings of human distress.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A mess of men and metal complicates the road.
We have to stop of course. There\u2019s
no way around this pulsating jumble of
helmets, handlebars, kickstands and flesh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cExcuse me\u201d says a rail-thin fellow clad in some
other animal\u2019s hide. He\u2019s at my driver\u2019s side
pumping moustache, beard and bacca juice
into the window crack.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t talk to him, Mom,\u201d my two girls order me.
The dog growls deep. Another sign.
\u201cMa\u2019am, my buddy\u2019s hurt
real bad. Can you help?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Pen-knives strobe my throat. I hesitate too long,
weighing the fine needle between life and death.
I can\u2019t\u2014I can\u2019t look at the crumpled body but
instead stare down at my idiot sandals.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Two skinheads toss the body into the back of my truck
and cover it with our camping gear.
Bacca Bob and the rest rev their bikes and
disappear in the direction we came from,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
their rumble trailing behind them in this vast sub-sea-level desert.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Unearthly silence outside and inside the cab,
kaleidoscopic colors high on the horizon
heat vapors rise in the afternoon breeze
icy contempt from inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
DO SOMETHING!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Release the clutch
Stomp on the accelerator. Hope for
God\u2019s sake the tailgate might still be unlatched,
and that the body roll out. Free us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I laugh at the possibility
I yell, shifting the tach up to 7K–redline.
I squeal, flooding the desert with silver decibels.
Sometimes you have to scream just to drown death.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
All three kids pat my shoulders and head
in pretended support, the dog moans
with each lurch. They\u2019re petrified
I\u2019ve lost it. It\u2019s a probability.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Behind us, out of the echo-vortex,
a set of high beams and two sets
of rotating red phares
circle the empty desert.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Above, a Piper J-3 Cub swoops down and a deep voice
commands me to STOP \u2013
RIGHT THERE \u23bb TURN OFF
the engine and STAY INSIDE.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Two men in backward-turned baseball caps
jump into the truck bed, haul
the rolled-up body onto a gurney and pop it
into the ambulance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIs it alive?\u201d my son whispers, finger-curling my streaked hair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHope so.\u201d The pilot\u2019s shiny medallion belt buckle
presses into the open window, his manicured
fingernails tousle my son\u2019s ragged hair.
The dog whimpers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He leans far down so I meet his gold-flecked eyes.
\u201cThese your kids?\u201d his lips alone smile.
\u201cYep \u2013 mine. Also the dog, but not by birth.\u201d
\u201cCheeky little tart, you,\u201d deeply, blandly urbane.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Stretching my seat belt forward to turn and reach my son,
\u201cDu liebes Kind, komm, geh mit mir!\u201d
Then I knew. This guy is an Erlk\u00f6nig,
just like in Goethe\u2019s story. I\u2019m the helpless parent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The dog leaps across my lap, snarling.
The girls start to shriek, but my son \u2013
my precious son \u2013 wraps his arms around
my neck, and sobs \u201cMommy, he\u2019s touching me!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dreadfully slow, I roll the window part way up, insanely
apologizing for my dog\u2019s viciousness.
The pilot strides to his plane and pulls out
a cone of green cellophane. It crinkles in the heat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I watch his pressed khakis return to the girls\u2019 window.
He offers them each a Bird of Paradise and a
stinking oriental lily. \u201cLittle ladies, this is
thanks for being good Samaritans.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His fingertips slide a gift card for The Inn onto my dash.
\u201cMaybe we\u2019ll see each other there \u2013 at my place.\u201d
Maybe not. Gonzo scam. My son sniffs for air.
The girls know, they know\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Their small fluttery hands heave the flowers
through the rear window onto the bed
of the truck where the body had been,
wrapped in our camping gear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Calm as a porpoise heading to safe harbor
out of the murderous open sea, I skim
the waves of sand and sweating blacktop
to our reserve at Fiddlers\u2019 Campground.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Three kids, a dog, and no more tent, but I\u2019ll make it work. I will. I will.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The fireball sun sneaks under the black caul,
lifting it from the yellow desert.
The rays reach far into the valley,
and then join the twinkling lights ahead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There is no lucite sky. Maybe it is I
who is upside down, my feet pushing
up off the valley floor. I think I can grab the stars.
If they don\u2019t grab me first.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That\u2019s the way it happened \u2014driving into Death Valley,a crazy idea of escape fromlife \u2013 divorce and all Death Valley lives up to its names alright \u2013Badwater, Skidoo, Ghost Town,Darwin as in some sort of origin,and Salt Sea. Real seas teem with life. Not here, not in thisdesert cauldron where I unwittingly soughtan adventure for … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1021,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-991","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poetry"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/07\/matteo-di-iorio-0BdkspE0KKo-unsplash.jpg?fit=640%2C427&ssl=1","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/991","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=991"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/991\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":995,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/991\/revisions\/995"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1021"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=991"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=991"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=991"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
Stage actress, opera conductor, horse rider — all lives passed but many stories to tell. Prefer the poetic soul of D.H. Lawrence or Louise Erdrich.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"