Bluebonnets
Rest stop as godsend. As a chance
to smell the asphalt for what it truly is.
So I wander toward the bluebonnets
scattered by the trash bins. Spring’s
fevered wind warms my face, and I
kneel to swipe away the scattered trash,
the faded candy wrappers planted
loosely like bouquets, the crumpled
soda cans rendered into an accidental
Stonehenge, and the greasy paper bags
tangled on their fuzzy stems. Abandoned
by years by lack of shade, their heat-
and insect-gnawed petals chalk inside
my hands, cling to my grip like Velcro,
and I contemplate whether I should pluck
one out, play a smaller version of God
and orchestrate their exodus to a different
ground, because like black sheep ostracized
from their flock, they’re the batches
not even the hill country wants, withered
strays not pictured on postcard racks,
plaques or key chains, family photo
backdrops, or souvenirs any tourist
would ever care to take, since they
sway with the pulse of the interstate’s
indifference, and mirror the sunflowers
my window, not even a few minutes ago,
blurred into a brushstroke of flames--
that backseat flash I placed my fingers on,
traced a path along all day, until they too
became what could only be admired
from a distance, and these bluebonnets
emerged like a truth too harsh to accept,
a parched and roadside anatomy slipping
from my fingertips, as they now shift out
of my silhouette’s frame, and buckle further
into silence, like hitchhikers who’ve lost
their will to turn back and wave.
to smell the asphalt for what it truly is.
So I wander toward the bluebonnets
scattered by the trash bins. Spring’s
fevered wind warms my face, and I
kneel to swipe away the scattered trash,
the faded candy wrappers planted
loosely like bouquets, the crumpled
soda cans rendered into an accidental
Stonehenge, and the greasy paper bags
tangled on their fuzzy stems. Abandoned
by years by lack of shade, their heat-
and insect-gnawed petals chalk inside
my hands, cling to my grip like Velcro,
and I contemplate whether I should pluck
one out, play a smaller version of God
and orchestrate their exodus to a different
ground, because like black sheep ostracized
from their flock, they’re the batches
not even the hill country wants, withered
strays not pictured on postcard racks,
plaques or key chains, family photo
backdrops, or souvenirs any tourist
would ever care to take, since they
sway with the pulse of the interstate’s
indifference, and mirror the sunflowers
my window, not even a few minutes ago,
blurred into a brushstroke of flames--
that backseat flash I placed my fingers on,
traced a path along all day, until they too
became what could only be admired
from a distance, and these bluebonnets
emerged like a truth too harsh to accept,
a parched and roadside anatomy slipping
from my fingertips, as they now shift out
of my silhouette’s frame, and buckle further
into silence, like hitchhikers who’ve lost
their will to turn back and wave.
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Esteban RodriguezEsteban Rodríguez is the author of six poetry collections, most recently Ordinary Bodies (wordwest press 2022), and the essay collection Before the Earth Devours Us (Split/Lip Press 2021). He is the Interviews Editor for the EcoTheo Review, Senior Book Reviews Editor for Tupelo Quarterly, and Associate Poetry Editor for AGNI. He currently lives in central Texas.
T // @estebanjrod11 |