Gretchen Steele Pratt

HITCH-HIKING
        for my sister

I let you do the talking,
                        knew it was your
                                                blonde hair blanched white with saltwater
They pulled to
                        the crab-grassed shoulders of Corn Neck Road
                                                for.
You did the talking,
                        invented places
                                                for them to take us. I saw my face
In the rearview mirrors
                        a hanging crystal hurt
                                                my eyes. A station wagon
Its mats caked
                        with horseshit, warm cans of beer
                                                for us to hold between our knees
The matches
                        that wouldn’t light in the wind
                                                of a backseat. The minivan doors
Slid open babies opened
                        their eyes fell back to sleep
                                                in the air-conditioned sunlight.
Surfboards knocked me
                        in the temples
                                                bandanas tied around the boys’ necks.
I don’t remember any music
                        Just your
                                                Who sings this? your calm elbow
Out the window
                        and pickup trucks with
                                                full cans of gas to sit on. The doors opened
And there were dreadlocks
                        dripping held together
                                                with a rubber band and Who sings this? and
An old woman
                        with buckets of seaweed
                                                crawling with baby crabs or
The voice of a teenage boy
                        too thin
                                                I live in an abandoned barn
Or a gutted van
                        white plastic kitchen chairs for
                                                us to sit on and doors dented by deer.
Your calm elbow.
                        A hatchback in the parking lot of Mosquito Beach
                                                slap of water
Against the hulls
                        an old sunset your tan shoulders
                                                lift from the driver’s window turn
Give me the okay
                        to get in
                                                and what could you sound like?
There was a fever of car doors
                        opening and slamming all over
                                                the island that summer, everything
Out the window blowing by in
                        the white light
                                                of our going. Who sings this?

–2007 Rattle Poetry Prize Honorable Mention