Somewhere Real
\nBy Shira Erlichman
\nGet in, George Eliot. I packed PB&Js. I’m bringing\nthat rainbow parachute we held hands under\nas eight year olds. Get in, right beside Autumn, beside\nevery manic pixie dream girl screenplay written by\na man, beside “bad weather,” beside Allegra’s pomegranate\nsplit into five uneven offerings, beside Allegra herself,\nshe’s a mother now, as I write this. Get in, television\nand all the extinct hardware of the nineties. Montel,\nJerry, Ricki, get in. I’m driving. Get in, exes. Tell me\nabout life without me, pick the music, thread a threat\nthrough my dumb brown hair, something like you were\nalways so then let the rain finish your sentence. Get in\nrain, but don’t hog the air. I’m running away. I’m tired\nof not being a monk. Get in, “You’re So Vain,” and five o’clock\nshadows and how hard it is to not talk to my brother.\nWe went a whole year and a half. Get in, year and a half.\nGet in, therapist with the good haircut and bad advice.\nYou too, Michael Jackson. I’m so sorry you had to be\nMichael Jackson. The kind of snow that only fell\nwhen I was young, get in. Or maybe it’s just how\nI saw it, get in. I’m trying desperately not to sound cute,\nwhich is, of course, adorable. But, please. Eleven siblings\nkilled in the camps, get in, next to my grandfather.\nPillheadedness, get in. Pema Chodron’s forehead\nand everything behind it, get in. I’m not going to say it\nagain: buckle up, put a daffodil behind my ear, touch\nmy shoulder from the backseat, write my will for me,\ntell Mary Ann Evans I can hear her humming, it’s fine\nexcept it’s driving me nuts. I’m aware that I’m crying,\nget in, sit next to K. The baffling intelligence\nof starling and uteri—front seat. I’m only five feet tall,\ntoo many strangers pick me up as a gag, my recurring dream\nis that I choose this life again—keep your hands inside\nthe vehicle. The mandolin I inherited because of genocide,\nkeep me awake all night. Morgan, I just want to watch your hands\nprotect a flame. Everybody, I’m sorry, I’m doing my best\nnot to lean so hard on metaphor I avoid\nwhere I am. This road invented itself. Even though\nI get the facial expressions right, I’m a poor listener, get in.\nGreasy haired, bucktoothed, gets distracted easily, deodorant\nstains, secret crush on Kathryn, come on in, throw your book bag\nout the window and tell me your favorite color. Turquoise, get in.\nThe locker they shoved Gabby into and I didn’t do it, but I didn’t\nstop them, get in. The line between where you almost went\nand where you’re going: they call that a fork. Funny. Every time\nI let the moon roof slide open, but there was no moon, get\nin, hurry slowly, slow up, slur your worlds, say you’re sor-\nrow, admit you loved the uglier twin while arm-in-arm with\nthe one older by a second. Oh, cherishing, get in, it’s not too\nlate, get in, the diner never closes, get in, put your feet\non the dash, I’m stopping at a—I can’t believe they call it\nthis, two commands: Rest! Stop! The game is we rush\ninto the gas station, you buy me a souvenir I most certainly\ndon’t need, and I, you. I found this keychain, it blinks\nyour name, they never have mine, get in. Get in, world,\ndeath, time. I swear I’ll turn this car around if you don’t\nhot box us vapid. The day the stars come down and start\nwalking around like they own the place, God said, I’m quitting,\nget in. The game is I spy, the game is who can be quiet the longest,\nthe game is hold your breath there’s a cemetery. Order me fries.\nOrder me lungs. Order me around. Order my manuscript.\nHere’s a handful of pennies, of ketchup packets, of sky.\nI know you’re exhausted, get in, I’m driving you home. Roll down\nyour window, the forecast is alive. The dog’s kicking in his sleep\nwhich means a brain the size of a lemon can squeeze a whole\ndream. Poor poet, get in, you never could say goodbye with grace.\nLucille, get in. Dead family, get in. I want to show you something:\nI had no map when I started and now here I am, somewhere real\ncalled loving you, get in.
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