Julene Tripp Weaver
Chevy Impala '60
We drive north
it's thirty degrees by daylight
minus ten degrees by midnight
after temperatures hit zero
Blankets wrapped around us
the heater in this old Chevy
stopped working years ago
The driver’s side door
jammed tight
I crawl over you each rest stop
crazy in jeans you
grab my breasts
I your driver
you legally-blind
wanted this trip
north
NYC to the Adirondacks
Your black-albino features
stark against snow
hazel-pink eyes
We speed too fast
skid the plowed highways
Make our way cold
into colder
The radio won’t work
we’ll play living together
A cooler in the trunk
with eggs and frozen chuck
a cabin waits
fires to be built
icicles to melt
My Brave Lynx
He says, he has something to ask me.
What, I say, open to anything.
I think to myself, This is my man.
He pauses, asks, What if I stop working,
live off the race track for a year?
Horse races? I ask.
I know how he studies racing charts
Exactly. We stand face to face—
I see horses in his eyes
New York streets quiet around us
Sixth Ave, a groomed dirt
bed, a distant church bell
chimes across town
You think you can do that?
Lynx-certain he replies, I am good at it.
Horses come around the curve
at the base of Manhattan
Why not, I say, It’s your life.
His soft lynx arms
surround me in a hug
We snap back cross Sixth Ave
after the last horse
passes the finish line.
Julene Tripp Weaver is a Seattle transplant from NY where she received her BA in Creative
Writing. She writes poetry and creative non fiction. Finishing Line Press published her
chapbook Case Walking: An AIDS Case Manager Wails her Blues. Garrison Keillor featured a
poem from her chapbook on The Writer's Almanac. Her poems are published in many journals
including Main Street Rag, The Healing Muse, Knock, Arabesques Review, Nerve Cowboy,
Arnazella, Crab Creek Review, Pilgrimage, and Letters to the World: Poems from the Wom-Po
LISTSERV.
Home
Issue Two
Chevy Impala '60
We drive north
it's thirty degrees by daylight
minus ten degrees by midnight
after temperatures hit zero
Blankets wrapped around us
the heater in this old Chevy
stopped working years ago
The driver’s side door
jammed tight
I crawl over you each rest stop
crazy in jeans you
grab my breasts
I your driver
you legally-blind
wanted this trip
north
NYC to the Adirondacks
Your black-albino features
stark against snow
hazel-pink eyes
We speed too fast
skid the plowed highways
Make our way cold
into colder
The radio won’t work
we’ll play living together
A cooler in the trunk
with eggs and frozen chuck
a cabin waits
fires to be built
icicles to melt
My Brave Lynx
He says, he has something to ask me.
What, I say, open to anything.
I think to myself, This is my man.
He pauses, asks, What if I stop working,
live off the race track for a year?
Horse races? I ask.
I know how he studies racing charts
Exactly. We stand face to face—
I see horses in his eyes
New York streets quiet around us
Sixth Ave, a groomed dirt
bed, a distant church bell
chimes across town
You think you can do that?
Lynx-certain he replies, I am good at it.
Horses come around the curve
at the base of Manhattan
Why not, I say, It’s your life.
His soft lynx arms
surround me in a hug
We snap back cross Sixth Ave
after the last horse
passes the finish line.
Julene Tripp Weaver is a Seattle transplant from NY where she received her BA in Creative
Writing. She writes poetry and creative non fiction. Finishing Line Press published her
chapbook Case Walking: An AIDS Case Manager Wails her Blues. Garrison Keillor featured a
poem from her chapbook on The Writer's Almanac. Her poems are published in many journals
including Main Street Rag, The Healing Muse, Knock, Arabesques Review, Nerve Cowboy,
Arnazella, Crab Creek Review, Pilgrimage, and Letters to the World: Poems from the Wom-Po
LISTSERV.
Home
Issue Two
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Chickenpinata
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| issue two |
