one poem by Evan Femino

TOO FAR GONE (a good night for killing)

Gasping on empty cartridges,

Half lung, heart full,

Pedal pressed hard.

Four fingers steady the wheel,

A shared blacktop into the dark.

Miles lost their meaning,

Long ago.

This endless night next to you,

Turns warm.

We drive hours.

Terror tears the air,

Ramble on washboards, hairpins,

& the rest.

You blow kisses to bodies,

Wilted on the shore.

Floating on our four-wheeled cloud,

Windows tight, wind creeps,

Whips us hollow.

We drive deeper into forgotten places.

Circled up in our forgotten places.

Last home we thought.

Centuries safe.

Slow roll the credits:

Structures crumble,

Ancestors die,

Birth cults emerge,

Charismatic men,

Circled up again.

Infection spread from two counties over.

Water line to our ankles.

We’re the last of a few.

Life’s a crawl.

Three generations back,

Yeah,

They told the same stories.

Trees gone, been gone, will be gone.

Cities full of fireworks,

Shattered the sky.

False celebrations on fault lines.

Volcanos and geysers weekly now.

Cosmic spasms near to home.

Horrors they told us were Hell.

Families exist in theory,

And are tested daily.

I speak in prophecies.

We stop & pay the man.

Fuel pump held loose,

Fingers missing, four.

I wince.

His calloused mitt,

Gas dripping,

Skin white hot waxy.

Eyes seen the end,

Too far gone.

I trust you with the transaction.

Scared, sheltered,

These wilds beyond me.

We pull off, lips tight,

Continue on for forty miles.

I’m sweaty, skin picking,

Leather slick at the wheel.

Your head down,

Sways with the rhythm of the road.

Eyes peeled,

I think we’re close.

But it feels like that all the time now.

I waited long for this.

I wish I had more to give.

Willing & able.

It’s now you told me,

Massive & waiting,

Out there.

I couldn’t allow myself the hope.

But the trip began,

At your command.

Personal prophet.

1,2,3,4,5,6 years,

And you appeared.

A long search, you said.

Soils dry, sun is white,

So hot it’s cold.

But that’s where we’re at.

Blue & calm.

Your morning air,

Releases me.

One catridge, two.

It’s enough, I say.

But we both know.

I’m rural & alone with you.

I think we’re being followed.

I’ve never been this far inland.

But you tell me there’s no other way back,

And so I believe you.

Ditch the wheels on arrival.

Snagged in the branches,

My skin peels back.

Cold, dry, & fragile.

You see my pain.

Coughing & wheezing.

Forward momentum seems-

It seems raw and desperate,

Like the rest of life.

Nevertheless,

We steam.

You guide my fourth finger.

A blessing on sight,

Resting on the trigger.

A quart of blood & we're two states away.

A squeeze to calm a nation.

Carry my weight.

Stillness across the water,

Suicidal on the shore.

Massive light swishes your face,

A beacon lost.

Your feet buried in cold, soaked sand.

Bittersweet victory lap.

I strip your clothes,

& you do the same.

We are being followed.

I find your hand in mine.

Moon gone still.

Mourn everything our eyes can't see.

Forgiveness finally.