Revisionist History by Daniel Brennan

There is no black ice hidden
on the road up the mountain;
the corners and bend of a two-lane
passage aren’t slick with a death threat.
Our mother, she’s behind the wheel,
she hasn’t had a drink in years. She blinks
when the crisp edge of dusk recedes
behind the canopy. My brother, nursing
a half-eaten bologna sandwich, me, with
an empty coke can, breathe easy as night
comes forward, sliding into the grooves
our Chevy suburban, the metal and rubber,
creates. My ribcage doesn’t shake, my lungs
don’t expand in a gasp. We make our way
up the hill through the falling starlight
just as other planets burn into view.
That night we don’t miss a beat, we fall asleep
with our heavy childhood limbs, our mother
exhaling, smooth as black ice, when she closes
her book and sends us dreaming.

*

There is no black ice hidden

on the road up the mountain, 

the corners and bend of a two-lane

passage aren’t slick with a death threat. 

Our mother, she’s behind the wheel,

she hasn’t had a drink in years. She blinks

when the crisp edge of dusk recedes

behind the canopy., My brother, nursing

a half-eaten bologna sandwich, me, with

an empty coke can, breathe easy as night

comes forward, slides into the grooves of

our Chevy suburban, metal and rubber,

creates. My ribcage doesn’t shake, my lungs

don’t expand in a gasp. We make our way

up the hill through the falling starlight

just as other planets burn into view. 

That night we don’t miss a beat, we fall asleep

with our heavy childhood limbs, our mother

exhaling smooth as black ice when she closes

her book and sends us dreaming. 

Daniel Brennan (he/him) is a queer writer and resident of New York City, whose work focuses on the juxtaposition of human intimacy and the ever-changing climate of our world. His poems have been published or are forthcoming in CP Quarterly, The Garfield Lake Review, ONE ART, Feral, and GLT.