ROAD TRIP 1957
by Constance Campana
Your hand brushes the film from the window, believes it can make a place to see through.
Your breath changes all that.
You sing alone, to yourself. They (in the front seat) won’t say much. They believe they
are used to you.
Sing as quietly as you can all the songs about leaving. Remember that the ones who leave
When the car stops and you are allowed to get ice-cream, lop off the top part without
them knowing. Don’t tell them your teeth hurt.
Mostly, hold on. You are almost there. Years will pass, but you are almost there—
Constance Campana’s work has appeared in Brown Journal of the Arts, Three Rivers Poetry Journal, 491 Magazine, Dogwood, Clerestory, SNReview, and several other small press magazines. Besides poetry, she is currently writing personal essays that examine family myths and the detailed events that determine identity. She grew up in Kentucky but, after receiving her MFA from Brown University, stayed in Rhode Island and recently moved to Massachusetts where she teaches writing at Wheaton College in Norton, MA.
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