the causeway

Chelsea Snow

i pass the too-pink oleander
and turn my nose up
at the busty brunette
on the tacky coors billboard.
working
for five hours.
i’m hungry.
i’m beat.
i’m not even home yet.

my head is starting to nod
at the wheel
because my body,
it is an oven timer for the sunset
with anxious twitches.

but before i rear end
that station wagon breaking.
incessantly. in. front of. me.
a big rig to the left passes
and its shadow follows.

light returns,
heavy, like honey
slowly slipping over the delicate rim
of a teaspoon.
i squint,
the spots of sap: glowing orbs.
and i can hardly see the road,
but through the window,
it’s miraculous.

the drenched marshes,
a slowly blooming field,
patches of light emulating the sky.
the air thick, hovering
just above the still pools.

the ethereal sacrament which waits
for the moment.
the silhouetted blackbirds,
seeming to hang in space,
a wallpaper print of Eden.