23. The path, continued
… truck.
The path in front of us is part muck, part shuck of engines.
A two-stroke engine with a problem confronts us.
We can’t fix a two-stroke anymore than we can fix a four-stroke.
A wet spark plug, someone says, can mean many things.
A wet dream, we say, can mean many things.
The sparks look lost, weak, slack-jawed.
The path doesn’t crash – but it has a weak chin, a smash-through-the-windshield
sort of grin.
We’d smile if it didn’t hurt.
From over our shoulders one of our huskies lolls a tongue black as oil: Check the
ground wire for the ignition coil.
The gas line sprays and we’re on our knees praying for a spark.
A path is its own catheter, Victor.
Rewire the hope in our hearts with the veins in our legs.
Any minute now we expect you to step out of the fog like one of our dogs with a
wrench, whacking pistons:
tick
tick
ping.
We’re high on the smell of smoke that fills the sky.
Not from behind, but ahead.
Burning dwarf willow and heather, from a camp above the weather.