Phoebe Wilcox
Phoebe Wilcox lives in eastern Pennsylvania . Some of her favorite things are John Banville novels, sushi, salamanders (as
long as she doesn't have to touch them; they have cute hands) and picking blueberries. Her novel, Angels Carry the Sun is
pending publication with Lilly Press and an excerpt from a second novel-in-progress has been published in Wild Violet. Recent
and forthcoming experiments may be found in The Chaffey Review, Emprise, Shoots and Vines, The Linnet’s Wings,
Calliope Nerve, Bartleby-Snopes, The Black Boot and others. Her story, "Carp with Water in Their Ears" published in River Poets
Journal was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
long as she doesn't have to touch them; they have cute hands) and picking blueberries. Her novel, Angels Carry the Sun is
pending publication with Lilly Press and an excerpt from a second novel-in-progress has been published in Wild Violet. Recent
and forthcoming experiments may be found in The Chaffey Review, Emprise, Shoots and Vines, The Linnet’s Wings,
Calliope Nerve, Bartleby-Snopes, The Black Boot and others. Her story, "Carp with Water in Their Ears" published in River Poets
Journal was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Car Problems
In the junkyard they have beer
in the soda machine
and if you are a lovely
young woman on your own
looking for a new distributor
you might find
a man with a wild beard and engineer cap
lecherously
looking after you.
His love is a rusty body, stale sun-bled seats
bald tires, and an odometer with 325,000
women on it.
Aren’t those little zeros just like the “o’s” of their
open mouths,
doing what women do:
breathing, nagging, measuring miles in miniature.
The stuffing, like coarse old body hair,
sticks out of a split in the vinyl seat.
Many lemons I have had.
One died in a fire.
Did I laugh or did I cry
by the side of the highway while six men
stopped to extinguish us?
I can’t remember, though I
know I felt like doing both.
It was a lemon that smelled
like gasoline for awhile before it left me forever.
Lovers are like Volvos.
I know they’ll slide off the road in the snow
but I know I’ll be safe when
the inevitable crash comes.
Another of my cars sounded like popcorn
popping under the hood.
It was given to my Dad
by an alcoholic who had his license suspended
but could still walk to the bar.
We popped popcorn together for about two weeks
before the angels claimed it.
Junkyard angels, they have steel
wings fashioned from split hoods
And carry sabers made of
windshield wipers. Those sabers burn
with the wrath of stranded drivers
and their vinyl, cloth, and leather garb
has a pine tree air freshener scent.
Hub cap breast plates
and stick shift
lessons.
Angels teach,
us not to stall out on a hill.
Back to the junkyard and the search.
The guy.
The Distributor.
Distributor, indeed.
Distributors:
have the same caps,
same wires,
same drive,
same sparks.
Leave it, this greasy beer-dressed kiss
undone
in the soil with the lonely,
embedded gasket that once rode with a queen.
Same sunny day tolerance
A faceless, guileless, shameless guarantee shines down
right now
as did an hour ago
on the antics of the human race.
In the junkyard they have beer
in the soda machine
and if you are a lovely
young woman on your own
looking for a new distributor
you might find
a man with a wild beard and engineer cap
lecherously
looking after you.
His love is a rusty body, stale sun-bled seats
bald tires, and an odometer with 325,000
women on it.
Aren’t those little zeros just like the “o’s” of their
open mouths,
doing what women do:
breathing, nagging, measuring miles in miniature.
The stuffing, like coarse old body hair,
sticks out of a split in the vinyl seat.
Many lemons I have had.
One died in a fire.
Did I laugh or did I cry
by the side of the highway while six men
stopped to extinguish us?
I can’t remember, though I
know I felt like doing both.
It was a lemon that smelled
like gasoline for awhile before it left me forever.
Lovers are like Volvos.
I know they’ll slide off the road in the snow
but I know I’ll be safe when
the inevitable crash comes.
Another of my cars sounded like popcorn
popping under the hood.
It was given to my Dad
by an alcoholic who had his license suspended
but could still walk to the bar.
We popped popcorn together for about two weeks
before the angels claimed it.
Junkyard angels, they have steel
wings fashioned from split hoods
And carry sabers made of
windshield wipers. Those sabers burn
with the wrath of stranded drivers
and their vinyl, cloth, and leather garb
has a pine tree air freshener scent.
Hub cap breast plates
and stick shift
lessons.
Angels teach,
us not to stall out on a hill.
Back to the junkyard and the search.
The guy.
The Distributor.
Distributor, indeed.
Distributors:
have the same caps,
same wires,
same drive,
same sparks.
Leave it, this greasy beer-dressed kiss
undone
in the soil with the lonely,
embedded gasket that once rode with a queen.
Same sunny day tolerance
A faceless, guileless, shameless guarantee shines down
right now
as did an hour ago
on the antics of the human race.
