Autobiography

The latch doesn’t catch on the moving van—
suddenly I’m half the man I was a couple
bad turns ago. I don’t make rights.

I cross my mother off the inventory list—
she’s calling my nickname as not to conjure
my father’s ghost. I cross off my alarm clock,

my autographed Star Wars poster, my father,
who says I ruined his dream of ruling
a factory far, far away. I can’t get off

his assembly line. I’m constantly being made.
It’s snowing on the radio. All the good rest
stop spaces have been taken. On the highway,

there’s a hitcher flying the kite of her thumb.
Say we can be lost together, say we can
rename the towns I keep entering

by memory. I’m betting one of the X’s
on this map has buried treasure
but my shovel is tired of me

feeding it to the dirt. I’m leaving holes
where there weren’t holes before,
big enough to bury almost anything.




Copyright the author(s) ©2007–2014