"Crying Alone in the Car”
By: Jarek Jarvis
If you see me attempting to enter the highway
already bawling—
snot bubbles ballooning
from each nostril—
let me merge.
I’ve eaten. I’ve prayed. I’ve loved. And all
it has gotten me is thousands of dollars
in debt, and the occasional craving
for Peking Duck—flesh so crisp
it puddles in the bowl of my tongue. Lord,
how I long to melt on someone
else’s tongue. Desire serves
just as well as love—
that prickly package I carried
through that Beijing Capitol Airport
coffee shop, down the escalator
through customs and boarding.
I cried as I sat on the plane.
The only one in my row, I slid
from middle seat to window
and put up my hood.
Most folks agree men are allowed
to cry. Few among that camp, however,
can imagine such a spectacle, its heaves
and dry bellows, the mucus-garbled
speeches and tear-battered visages.
That’s why I only allow myself a cry
when settling into a long journey alone.
I weep for every upcoming arrival
and distant departure. When
moving from one possible
habitable star towards another, I sob
like coyote and trick myself
into the wood at night.
My maw lathers with tears. My canines glitter.
I sniff the breeze and set myself to chase.
Jarek Jarvis (he/him) is an emerging Hoosier poet. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Western Kentucky University. He lives in Central Indiana where he teaches English to high schoolers. His poems have appeared in Washington Square Review, Corvus Review, Wyldcraft Literary Journal, and Caustic Frolic.
Ig