A poem: "The Vessel"

The Vessel
By Jenna Reimer

I must go and leave this behind,
Leave you behind.

A dampened breeze rains over my heart;
The wars in my frightened wings cry fiercely.

My memory will surface like the darkening of night
But will desert you in its hour of retreat.

Here it is a shipwreck, swallowed in a vicious cave;
My soul is the fury of its blind captain howling in fear.

This place, Like the sea, sank discoverers and gargled hope;
This place, like the distance, devoured desire.

I vowed to act beyond this wreckage and walk;
The lighthouse guiding me by the hour of its blazed spell.

There is still fire within my marked grave,
Ignited by hungering teeth and a cemetery of tomorrows.

My entwined body will merge with the water’s dance
Drifting and singing like a sailor in the fore of a ship.

The voyage of my destiny will begin amidst your longing;
What sorrow you may express will be drowned by my compass.

Departing like the deathless wind I will set sail
In the passing moments of a cherry dawn and forget.

The I-95

It was only coffee and cartons of cigarettes
that fueled my dad to his next haul.
My childhood memories are muddled,
saturated with visions I choose to remember;
trucking with him is one of them.
Driving deadly back roads
to avoid the weight scales,
the smell of his Copenhagen chew,
dashboard cleaner, the diesel smoke
rising from chrome stacks,
the pine scented air freshener-
these annoyances to others
were only calming to me.
Proudly sitting in the plush red passenger seat
I would outline the small dessert etching
he engraved himself on the window;
a howling coyote, a desolate wasteland,
an eclipsed moon hidden behind murky clouds.
It was those moments I was completely void
of all thoughts of home.
The paved road was the very thing
that silenced that anticipation of the becoming.
The road ahead merges with the semi’s hood;
a blurred vision of concrete and sky
become all to comforting.
I always felt I was one of them, a trucker.
Never putting out or giving in to nothing,
remaining a lonesome soul just to get by.
I longed for the empty diners
where you get a plastic monkey
hanging off the tip of your drink.
Where everyone you meet has baggage,
waiting to unload onto anyone who’ll listen.
Where, during a brief rest break,
you become best friends
with the man sitting beside you,
knowing every detail of his life
down to the final wishes in his will-
this all reminds yourself others exist.
I was too young to ever understand
where we were headed, or why.
All I knew was the I-95 was long,
and you always had to turn back home.

Chapter 2: Lonesome Red Pancakes in Noseneck Hill

The entrance door screeched with stories of drunks and truckers
coming here to spill onto anyone who would listen.
The light from outside illuminates the place,
my entrance seemed to disrupt its sinister thoughts.
Music of an old jukebox was softly humming,
sounded like Waylon Jennings, before he got clean.
Cigarette smoke gathered at the ceiling,
a few shadows sat at a corner table mumbling about corn
or something that was horribly uninteresting.
Mismatched chairs and 3 legged tables
were disheveled throughout the place.
Dust gathered in crevices beneath old coco-cola signs,
pinwheels hung on the wall, shovels leaned up against doors,
and pictures frames of random folk
with disturbing smiles of hidden history
watched you walk in.
A old trucker was staring at me,
looked like he hadn’t seen a women in years,
if he got a hold of me
he would have tear me in two.
I tested his glare with my own and knew he would cower.
Taking a seat at the bar I realized this was no diner,
perhaps a marketing ploy to widen their customer base.
This place was gloomy, tired and incredibly sad.
A dark skinned women placed down a coaster.
“What’ll ya have sweetie?”
Her black hair pinned into a crows nest atop her head.
Pieces hung across her face like black thread,
a man’s oxford shirt hugged her hips
like morning bakery buns wrapped in cloth.
She had these beautiful turquoise earrings incased in silver
and a matching necklace.
A stained apron cinched around her waist
spoke of the years she’d spent here.
Her dark chestnut eyes crept into my soul
stealing my cold fate and breathing for my heart.
“What do you have for food?” I asked.
“Well, Jerry back there makes some mean pancakes.
You like pancakes don’t ya?”
I looked up from fiddling with the coaster,
“I love pancakes, I’ll get six.”
“Six?! Jesus Miriam Joseph Child!
Well, you could use some meat on your bones!”
I glanced down at my matchstick legs,
They’ve grown smaller since I last looked.
“I guess I could, couldn’t I? Tell him to make ‘em big too!”
She let out a big hum drum laugh,
an exhale of surprise
followed by an inhale of amusing pity.
She smiled sweetly and walked to the kitchen.

"Junket" Chapter 1: Hoardin' Coach Roads

Ginger skies and deserted roads were becoming too comforting.
My eyes, accustomed to these free paths and dessert fields,
saw nothing left within cities of the savage and barbaric.
It was my way now; my ol’ 54 and I,
never putting out or giving in to nothin’
and still remaining a woman.
The drifting Texas sand scratched my skin, burnt
from the death and rebirth of a crimson sun.
My complexion was no longer untouched porcelain,
but only pealing nail beds, cracked hands and traveled feet,
now a dry leather, weathered
by way of the wind.
I’d been on the road for 23 days now.
What started as a brief escape from a dull livin’
was becoming an everlasting journey to the dark side.
I was now within a small suitcase, a guitar,
fueled by cigarettes and the occasional drink
and not ever goin’ back.
It’s been almost 52 hours since I last had a hot meal.
I had to pull over, the moans of my stomach
were warning me I was on my last leg.
This is going to be a problem.
I hadn’t seen a gas station or men in Sombrero’s
selling Pico de Gallo invested with Loew
for almost 6 hours.
I wasn’t worried.
A drifter like me cares not for hunger.
Then I noticed I was low on cigarettes, time to curb it.
After a couple detours down some dirt roads,
over softened hills who grew strands of sanded hair
when the wind would gust through the valley
with a piercing sound of childhood screams,
I found a place.
A small roadside diner with worn pink painted brick,
coffee stained colored draperies,
a fluorescent flicker that read “Mexican American food.”
No name, just a red wooden sign that said “Diner.”
I put ‘er in park, looked at the nothing surrounding me
and started walkin’ towards the place.
The growling of my hunger
was even interrupted by a traveling tumble weed,
I laughed at the cliché,
Dean would have loved that.