Malia Jackson
POSTCARDS FROM A FAMILY ROADTRIP
THROUGH THE AMERICAN WEST
[epistolary]
Malia Jackson
POSTCARDS FROM A FAMILY ROADTRIP
THROUGH THE AMERICAN WEST
[epistolary]
T———, There is an entire lot of them. Erstwhile shiny cars, formerly functional too. Now cinderblocked, rustpocked. And attended by half a dozen llamas blinking stupidly. If rustic poverty is scenic, then yes, it’s scenic. In a state of arrested decay, M——— |
T———, When carbonates precipitate out of solution, they can form petrified springs. Perhaps mineralized coils. In the briny lake you’ll float high enough to read my résumé. This is Atlantis in dry dock. Wishing you’d told me that before we got off the boat, M——— |
T———, Roadside turquoise is scarce on a Sunday. The fossil beds persist, inaccessible among the brambles and the insects. Intersecting the highway hypotenuse are the wheel ruts of the Oregon Trail. How to dismantle a rattler? Comparing the swelling to fruit, M——— |
T———, Animals are dichotomized into the ones you can shoot and the ones you can sell. That could be a marmot. The rivers are all running abnormally high, and the moribund horse festoons the town with its grim iconography. Swatting salmon, M——— |
T———, In grizzly country your car is the cage. The glacier’s apotheosis was sadly apocryphal. Cottony blooms hung heavy with rain. An atheist can witness the earth breathe and still be assured it’s purely geologic. With yesterday’s panties in today’s pocket, M——— |
Malia Jackson hails from the Adirondack Mountains of New York but now calls San Francisco home. You can find her work in 42opus, Shampoo, Transfer, and The Astrophysical Journal. She's not even kidding about that last one.