51 North

Because I can’t differentiate between Sedona and Camp Verde

our destination is never clear, we’re only closer

by the three-minute-fast car clock. If you smell a skunk or hit


a deer, you’re getting there. Javelina could be anywhere.

Because I cannot understand traffic, I feel the world

crushing us in a vise, half-Camry, half Ford pickup


with a sapphic bumper sticker, bald driver taking a hit

out of his cigarette before releasing it into the street. Because Verde

Valley is the next exit, maybe we can get food. Because closer


means I get to pee, maybe soon enough, I pick up

my leg and put it over the other. My dad listens to Brave New World

the audiobook, says we’re almost there. We could be anywhere


like yesterday, my kindergarten substitute teaching us colors: verde

green as saguaro, go, rojo means your parents hit

the brakes. Stop. Litter collects itself in amarillo lines, the world


drifts by at night so you don’t see. Objects in mirror are closer

so watch out, Huxley says, this dystopia could be anywhere.

We’re here. End recording. Next time, this is where we’ll pick up.