Sunup.
Dora drives west.
Interstate Forty out of Albuquerque.
Schrödinger’s cat sits in the passenger seat.
Its superposition alters with each mile marker.
At tenths of miles posted by the highway department.
The setting moon eggs the sky.
On even tenths the cat stares out the windshield.
On odd tenths the cat sleeps curled.
Clouds steam Mount Taylor’s peak.
A gauge needle leans toward E.
Dora exits the highway.
Phillips Sixty-Six gas pump.
Stationary stability.
Ahead toward Grand Canyon destination.
Even: Dora’s departed daughter sits in the back seat.
Odd: a void inhabits the rear view mirror.
Emotions erupt Tsoodził to dust.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney
postscript
This poem written after reading “The Test” by Jennifer Givhan from her book Landscape with Headless Mama.
Tsoodził is the Navajo name for Mount Taylor.
