Lanthorn, Vol. 43, No. 48, March 9, 2009 Grand Valley State University
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Grand Valley State University ScholarWorks@GVSU Volume 43, July 10, 2008 - June 7, 2009 Lanthorn, 1968-2001 3-9-2009 Lanthorn, vol. 43, no. 48, March 9, 2009 Grand Valley State University Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.gvsu.edu/lanthorn_vol43 Part of the Archival Science Commons, Education Commons, and the History Commons Recommended Citation Grand Valley State University, "Lanthorn, vol. 43, no. 48, March 9, 2009" (2009). Volume 43, July 10, 2008 - June 7, 2009. 47. https://scholarworks.gvsu.edu/lanthorn_vol43/47 This Issue is brought to you for free and open access by the Lanthorn, 1968-2001 at ScholarWorks@GVSU. It has been accepted for inclusion in Volume 43, July 10, 2008 - June 7, 2009 by an authorized administrator of ScholarWorks@GVSU. For more information, please contact [email protected]. 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O' <-»■ CD 51 O' CL *3 3 5’ Lanthorn p CD 0 0 O 3“ 3 TO cn CD cn p CD < *CD—< Grand Valley Lanthorn LITERARY EDITION Monday, March 9, 2009 3 Winding Highways Nowhere by Taylor Baker “It’s four hours north, ” you say. “A more comfortable than the glass window. Which is what I do right now, and you’re cabin, down a dirt road. Just woods, a Adjusting to me, you cradle my face in your just smiling. river. There’s not much there.” arm, my cheek feeling the muscles flex and The sun, which hung so high at our 1 act as though it will be an effort to relax, as your fingers play guitar strings in departure, begins to sink lower to the stay entertained; as though being with you my hair; C, A, G. “1 like the way you sit in ground, almost touchable. It sits just alone does not keep me spinning. my car,” you say. He never noticed things beyond the horizon, so close. I trace it with In the car you sing along to “Hey Jude ” like that. I assume you speak of my head in my free finger on the window ’s glass. The maybe, while my feet tap on the dash. As we drive your chest, my hand in yours, and my legs August sky is blending with hues of pink that is what and drive, the bright city line disappears in resting on the window ’s edge. I think about and red, the sunset lighting the heavens. you are looking for. the side view mirror. I no longer recognize what that means; I wonder how other girls My mind travels again, further. I think of The stars above us begin to blink in the names of roads, Chesapeake, Prairie; sat in your car. I imagine the last one, rigid, how long he and I were together. How I the blackening space; only inches appear or towns, Grayling, Eldorado. Knee-high still. Her neck stiff, under her red locks. thought I was happy. How I thought he’d between each one. Fireflies glow as we grasses and leafy trees sway, in rhythm to Her mouth silent, and tight. Every so often be in my future. I think of how three words pass; our speed blurring them into solid your singing, against the sky. I watch the moving to the mirror to apply a new layer were said, and forgotten. How I vowed, to beams of light. The tree’s branches and passing countryside; my mind replays the of cranberry lipstick; every now and then give up. And yet here I am, in this car, with bows weave webs of canopies above us as last few weeks: you and I met that night on drumming her impatient fingernails on the you, thinking something very different. we drive further into the impossible dark. I the sidewalk, two weeks after he had left. plastic panels of the car door. I don ’t know if I trust you, I just know I can feel my eyes adjust to the blindness, as “You ’re beautiful, ” you told me, “Would The traffic around us remains steady, the want to. I don ’t know your favorite color. we pass the last street light swarmed with you be mad if I kissed you?” you asked. two lane road carries travelers going to and His, was blue. I don ’t know what you look light-captive moths. We lay in the grass beneath a globe of stars leaving from unknown places. Mothers, for in a girl. But maybe, you are looking The change from steady pavement to the naming constellations, like school kids. Fathers, sons and daughters. Wives and for stubborn wanderer. Clumsy in manner, rumble of dirt road under tires tells me we “Let’s play the question game,” I husbands, or just lovers, like us. I think of but not with words. Hardly found in a pair have made it. Wherever it is, with you, it say, interrupting your duet with Paul where they’re going, where they came from. of shoes, always with a pack of cigarettes. is good. As of now, I will ride the winding McCartney. Your face says, “Really?” Nine-to-fivers clocking out only minutes Outspoken-a distinct trait of my mother’s. highways with you to nowhere, so long as But I need to hear you speak. Because ago. Returning home fast to families, or Fluent in Spanglish.and vulgarity. you don ’t let go of my hand. after all, you are almost stranger to me. I maybe to no one. Venturing back to houses want to forget he likes baseball and card in suburbs, or cottages that peppered the games. I want your voice to resonate in lakes and rivers around us. Ashing my my ears and drown out his unsteady sound. cigarette on the window frame, I realize I am with you now. Flirting with the I don ’t know our exact destination. Just boundaries of friends and lovers. I count north. And I wonder how many other men the days we have spent together. Before and women have said that every weekend. this week it was inconsistent phone calls Just north. Just north. and meetings. “This is a big step in the 1 glance between my bangs at you. In relationship, ” I remember you saying. I a different land, or time, you’re singing knew that. But hearing you say it, knowing along to favorite tracks. I smile as I think you acknowledged it too, was something of how much I hated his music, and else. how listening to you, singing off-key, is Sometime after the rest stop off 1-75, I becoming my favorite song. The comer of set my hand on the edge of the seat, timidly your eye catches my stare. You look in my March 11,2009 inviting you to take it. Your fingers find a direction, and my face flushes. I fight the home between mine. I study them carefully, urge to look away. Your brow curves down Shannon Brownlee with the weight of a thought. Tilting your etching each winding line of your palm Author, Economist, Health Care Analyst into memory. Tracing them one by one, I head, you smirk, “You can get me to do predict your future. A line of good fortune, anything when you look at me like that.” "Debunking The Myth of Poor good health. In one line I see success I wonder what anything means. I wonder Care for American Veterans" in your career—a doctor; in another, a if “anything” includes reading poetry, and beautiful wife and children, a dog in the breakfast in bed. If it’s going to sappy Shannon Brownlee is a Senior Fellow at the New America Foundation and a former front yard of your house with a porch. A romance movies, and not complaining. If writer for U.S. Neus and World Report.