Wonder

By Judson Mitcham

``

It can start with nearly anything, the delicate theme

of a late-night talk show or the desperate, false

laugh track of a bad sitcom. Sometimes,

I see us all sitting here

lulled off forever by a gas leak, and the TV

still selling us deodorants and beer, selling lies

about our lives. I want to turn

from the dead screen able to say

this life is a holiness, it is all we will have.

I want to load us into an Oldsmobile

with windows that won't roll up, upholstery

musty from years in the garage. I want to ride,

washed with the summer air's warm velvet cloth,

ride to where the stars come clear, where the road

goes from to blacktop to concrete slab, sudden dirt.

I want to trouble dust for miles, till we roll

to a hill overlooking a farm,

where a long gold light floats out in a field

like a lost ray of sun, where the cattle lie buoyed

by the earth, their heavy spines curving over hearts

slowing in the drift toward sleep. I want to feel

how the old car dances and trembles and kicks,

trying not to die, then click the lights off,

kill the engine, and listen

to the tree frog, cricket, and cicada staccato

the soft lows rising, as in wonder, from the darkness,

as if asking repeatedly, What are you doing here?

Why are you here?