Driving Through, and; Occupational Therapy Emma Aprile (bio) DRIVING THROUGH safe car on safe road and highway switchbacksbaby girl with those gray wristbands onplastic pellet resting between tendonskeeping her stomach still or at least stiller than the black car and its sticky summer seatstight gridlines on the backs of our thighslittle white house peeking up at herfrom below the grey metal guardrails little creek smaller than the river she knowsplaying peekaboo with the swaying roadcarved strip in the mountain on the other sideshe knows the word logging thanks to Richard Scarry's overall'd cat-boybut maybe he's a girl like her who didn'tknow the dirt turns such a yellow-red colorwhen they take the trees away and string those wires along likea tree-lined set of hand-over-hand barsand it's still light out and they haven'tstopped for lunch and her brother wonders where the mountain's trees wentand wonders where all the houses' people arewhile his mom looks out the window andsays how beautiful it is along that road [End Page 90] and her voice sounds like a book's endthat he doesn't understand and he'd liketo play in the creek he keeps seeing butthey don't stop till the houses are gone when the bracelets stop workingbecause the road is just like his sister'sbelly and nothing like that stays stillwhen they have other places to go [End Page 91] OCCUPATIONAL THERAPY The morning's pain pill weighs her down. Unseen winter birds ask her to remember spring. She cannot recognize their calls. She postpones her pill as long as her coffee lasts. The pin inside her arm conducts weather to her bones, but she doesn't know why. Yesterday's paper unfolds across her table. A miniature blue motorcycle's plastic parts cover Jerusalem's riots, & paints smear over tax cuts, advertisements: reports on a world that's come & gone while she slept. Wool-blanket sky shrouds her bedroom. No one could tell the time with their sun buried in clouds. She has come to hate nature's moody reflections. Before the accident, her hours opened like highways, but today crumples, slices its light through thin shutters, obscures its own horizon. Instructions fold them-selves into an oragami bird, & she's confined to hidden routes insides its square stomach, along the creased & recreasedfolds of its triangular wings. Each pill's white circle cushions her in cotton, cradles her elbow's splintered bones insideits haze. The model's tiniest parts hop away across the news. Words she used to use—conflict, interior, accord—now difficult to define. Alone, she folds her scars into her chest. Cold, damp, easily torn: the model's instructions test dexterity. She stares at her loosened skin, waiting for her muscles, pink & striatedbehind their casings, to unfold, to open like a pair of wings—if only she could remember what for. [End Page 92] Emma Aprile Emma Aprile's poetry has appeared in online and print publications including, most recently, Shenandoah and Antiphon. She holds an MFA from George Mason University, and works as a copyeditor of literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry for independent small presses. She lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Copyright © 2019 Berea College
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