Your Nissan Stanza By Meghan Kemp-Gee

Your Nissan Stanza

Ten. I am lately tired of claiming that the
world won’t hold together. I lately
have had enough of suspicion of
artifice and forged connections. I am
lately tired, and it is late, and you are
tired and you are falling asleep. Four oh
five. I will drive and you will lean your head
on the window and it puts you to sleep. One oh
five. I dedicate this sundown to my
predecessors in the carpool lane, who
ease me down to thirty with cascades of
brake lights signing that they’re all already
doing what I’m about to do. I will
complete the choreography, I will
drive while you sleep. Six oh five. I dedicate
the fire over Santa Clarita to our
passing on the left, to the checking of our
rearview mirrors, our most benevolent
yielding to out-of-state license plates
on an obfuscated onramp. Ninety-
one. To the never-dark night sky I
dedicate the way that at least on
the San Diego Freeway one is not,
can never be, completely all alone.
Fifty-seven. To the one last workman
standing still beside a floodlit open
excavation site, I dedicate the
possibility that he rhymes. We offer
him a decreased speed ordered by orange
signs and so the world is changed around him:
we move differently. This is to say, your
car, my care, this is all yours as you are
mine to transport. I offer movement through
named channels, arteries and metaphors.
Twenty-two. I offer the moment when
after we merge the GPS doesn’t
know where it is yet. Five. I offer you
Los Angeles, which is so hard to end
in any direction. I promise that
someday we’ll move home somewhere with lower
rent and universal healthcare. Ten. I
promise that wherever that home is will
always rhyme with here. Four oh five. And here,
I promise you that we are so, so small.
I offer you that. I promise myself
that we live here to prove this to ourselves,
to be counted and skipped over in these
self-melting numbers, that we must live here
so that we never get proud. One oh one.
I want to go back to those forged connections
across artificial structures. I want
you to see what I’m doing for you. Don’t
wake up, just sleep and watch me drive. Sleep and
see how it’s too late to make another
way for me to be. One. Lend me your car.

By Meghan Kemp-Gee


Meghan Kemp-Gee lives somewhere between Vancouver, Los Angeles, and Fredericton NB. She writes poetry, comics, and scripts of all kinds. She won the Poetry Society of America 2014 Lyric Poetry Award. Her work has also appeared in Copper Nickel, Helen: A Literary Magazine, The Rush, Switchback, Tincture, Stone of Madness, Altadena Poetry Review, Anomaly, Autostraddle, and Skyd Magazine. She teaches written inquiry and composition at Chapman University. You can find her on Twitter @MadMollGreen.

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