when you father asks you to go
for a ride in the blue jeep.

when your father asks you to
go for a ride in the blue jeep 
you don't say yes--
you just follow-- 
crawl inside on all fours--
choose how old you want to
pretend to be--
you wear jeans with
the knees ripped clean from
kneeling by the stream
catching tadpoles--
you both live together inside
a terrarium that was once
your bedroom--
you wear your kenpo uniform with
the jacket un-tied
& you keep your hair short &
brown & slick with
august sweat--
he keeps the top down so
you can both become part of
the wind--
engine hums with
the throat of a tambourine--
together you make a radio 
from the cicadas--
you want to join them &
burrow deeper
& deeper into the corn fields--
you listen to him
when he tells you about the 
farm house they tore
down around the corner--
how naked & how menacing
the empty earth has become--
you tell him 
what you remember of
the airport & watching the yellow
biplane taking-off while
you & him ate turkey club sandwiches
at the Airport Diner--
you stole the pickle spears
& could never finish your milkshake
while
he folded the paper napkin rings
into airplanes to
fly across the table--
you notice he took off
the rear-view mirrors--
the road disappears behind you--  
the jeep only drives forward--
it is a forgetful kind of god
without a face or a rudder
to steer with--
your father & you trust the machine--
pray a hymn built from 
the collective melody
written my the falling rain--
you felt the hole in your
spine weeks before
the bottom of the vehicle
started to rust out--
you felt your own body 
metal grin when you 
stumbled forth
from the garage-- seatbelt-less
& unpredictable--
you didn't tell your father
or anyone else--
it's an easier task to 
feel your skeleton rust
& bend alone-- 
you listen when he tells you
the jeep has a hole in 
the frame-- the road behind
you shatters into a mist
until you stop at a 
bent in the road--
you believe him when he says 
he's going to weld the hole
in the frame of the jeep--
you drive
off the road together--
feel the holes in your own
spine growing--
when you father asks you to go for a ride
you follow him until there's 
no more road & the jeep 
digs itself into the tall talks of corn--
you wear a jean jacket--
you hang your hand out the window 
& try to catch yellow
bi-planes in your fist.