by Shei Sanchez
Darkness on route 144. The hour before dawn still
folded in the failing moonlight. November air
hangs dewed, wanting. My only source of light
caged in the eyes of my car, searching
for the right of way. Brightened for whitetails,
possums, refuge. Groping for tread and mettle.
The Hocking River, a fixture by my side as I pass
the forlorn and fallow. Pass the graveyards
of corn and soy, felled trees from yesterday’s
storms, homes without the noise of dreaming.
From speakers, or maybe in my mind, a song’s
repeating line etches an inscription somewhere
deep I cannot trace. It is happening again. It is
happening again. Melodies of then and now
meander and pirl like the river. Migrating from
one heart to another. Tasting the burden
of freedom. Feeling anew the first time I heard
I love you. Which road have I lived on all my life?
As if listening, meeting my gaze above, a beacon.
Shei Sanchez is a Filipina-American writer, photographer, and teacher from Jersey City, New Jersey. She studied art history and journalism at NYU and holds a teaching degree from a tiny, but mighty graduate school in Brattleboro, Vermont. Her work has been published in journals and anthologies, including Women of Appalachia Project’s Women Speak series, Nonwhite and Woman: 131 Micro Essays about Being in the World, One by Jacar Press, and Still: The Journal. A recent Best of the Net nominee, Shei is currently working on her first collection.
Hawaii Pacific Review 