Head-On
Copper Wires & the Horseless Carriage
Because fear.
Because you aren’t grounded—are you.
Because what is your life without making something; leaving something behind to prove a life was lived. Because any
day could send you slip-sliding to Hell; in a split second—
Because tomorrow (a tomorrow) the doctor will deliver a fatal diagnosis—three months, three weeks—and it was under your skin all along;
festering,
and you ignored it,
(you told you to)
Because you’re a hypocrite, but at least you can see that.
Because last September you thought you were in love (but it’s the other ‘L’ word);
you kissed a silhouette (he was your silhouette) embroiled in shadow; romance forbidden by nothing except the ghosts of your small-town; and your twin-size bed fit two over six feet; and you wrapped your fingers around his and kneaded hair and shut the blinds because you’re on the first floor.
Because you can name every country by its silhouette; memorized them; and he could name none; missed Mexico,
missed Germany, but you didn’t poke fun,
so as to not give an ick?
Because you helped with geology homework (not geography, that’s a lost cause) and because ‘you’re a sweet guy’ and he cracked (you cracked) your concrete-laden titanium shell open and got to the soul language; festering languid inside; because Blue Devil Lounge and because he changed your life with two words—
“don’t think”
Someone gave Grandpa an old shitbox from the nineties and he (selflessly)
bequeathed it to you. The hubcaps were the biggest you’d ever owned. It ran loyal—that Acura—and you loved its
flaws/quirks (but not your own)
Because the AC worked part-time
Because the exhaust invaded the cabin sometimes and your ‘friends’ noticed before you
Because no forest of yellow pines could kill that ancient smell.
Because you (once afraid to touch a steering wheel), drove yourself to college,
Mom worried sick (Dad hiding it better);
one-handed became one-fingered (don’t think); you called it your ‘straight-shot’,
(sure, straight)
go west down on thirty-nine for an hour,
almost exactly
an hour,
like clockwork,
every time.
Because you fell so
hard
and so fast
you needed (to see) him
that day,
the first day, actually
grass sprawled out beneath tangled hearts; fingertips inches apart; swapping cells; (or that’s what it felt like);
a few dozen stars, and Venus, peering through heavy light pollution
at two maybe star-crossed,
maybe, lovers
he wanted more before it started;
a direct, untethered line to
you.
Because the practice rooms are for music
and you showcased yours;
your half-baked symphonies and four-note soliloquy (you can’t even pronounce that)
And you played Orange Pyramid; but you didn’t tell him the following:
A) You stole the chords
B) You wrote it about your last crush
The lyrics: nonsense;
“Orange pyramid, padlocked in the desert of my thoughts,
“A sarcophagus of broken loves and love-me-nots”
Or maybe not nonsense.
You tell me,
you
wrote it.
Because all you could think about while snuggled up in (your) blanket on (his) bed was
“I don’t deserve this” because,
because,
because you couldn’t explain why.
then he said it; “don’t think.”
A nothing saying
changed you.
Because April 3rd is your brother’s birthday;
Because you drove home for the weekend;
Because you knew the straight shot like the back of your hand
Because freezing rain polishes blacktop
Because thick drops splattered against your windshield
Because you took that turn at fifty-five, don’t think, too late,
for a second you’d never see fifty-five,
Because your life flashed
(birthdaysfuneralsdinnersbreakfastsgraduationshospitalsbirthspublicationsweddingsvacations)
Because your car veered toward that guard rail, your heart bursting at the seams
Because you practically tore the steering wheel out of the dashboard, turning left
panicking back, but
Your headlight detonated, shrieked of shattered glass, you were flung forward, sternum smashing into the steering wheel, passenger airbag deployed, yours didn’t, cabin filled with smoke; although, not exhaust this time, but the car’s dying breath; you’d hit your chest; hard, felt broken, breathing short, long, the telephone wire watched on, you tried to back up; there would never be another shift to reverse, never another shift to neutral, never another parallel park job and never another Fredonia Parking sticker; never, never, never, at least not with this, this crumpled, desolate, damaged heap,
a wreck.
(It was all so unexpected. This was one of the many dangers of the horseless carriage)
Because you nursed (forced) yourself back to health by running; (always running) until your doctor told you running could collapse you(r lung), but you had to do something, be something. So you—
So you what?
So you dove headfirst, (brain second); taking a rusted axe to your breaker box as you
pressed your lips so tightly against it (him)
An acceleration,
a static charge;
an emotional detonation—
high voltage adrenaline
grounded you;
knocked you back (i really like you, you’re a sweet guy)
into your rubberized veins
you left so much behind, there (where you can never go again);
there is not an alternative; it’s direct
all concurrent
just
a frayed copper wire without an end cap
Because you never thought that would happen to you.
Alex Fisher is an author, musician, and artist based in Western New York. He’s in his senior year at SUNY Fredonia and serves as president of the College Democrats of New York. His work spans sci-fi satire and deeply personal artwork, such as his short story “Fiftieth Street” published in Fredonia’s Trident and his nonfiction work, “On Toronto.” He’s currently developing his debut novel, Bleach, which takes its inspiration from disinfectants and cleaning equipment… obviously.