Miss Ohio Teaches You to Drive

By CORINNA MCCLANAHAN SCHROEDER

Follow the serpentine river roads
toward the Little Miami’s lip. Pass through
the sycamore trunks, their whitewashed
limbs. See how they molt their skins.
These are curves I can still ride harder
than a man’s hips, roads my parents
never knew I drove. Feel that wind,
saturated, undercut with vespertine
chill. Let it frizz your hair. Turn up
the Smashing Pumpkins or the Cowboy
Junkies. That’s river musk on your teeth.
See how the lightning bugs burn their bulbs
just ahead? In the rearview, bats unstitch
your wake. Now the humming bridge
in your fingertips and thighs. It’ll carry
your weight ten thousand times. Learn
that darkening vein underneath, how
it pushes and pushes toward main stem
waters, toward a surefire way out of here.

 

Corinna McClanahan Schroeder is currently a PhD student in Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Southern California. Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Tampa Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Cave Wall, and Linebreak, and she is the recipient of a 2010 AWP Intro Journals Award in poetry. She received her MFA from the Universtiy of Mississippi where she received a John and Renée Grisham Fellowship.

[Purchase your copy of Issue 02 here.]

Miss Ohio Teaches You to Drive

Related Posts

Mesquite plant

July 2021 Poetry Feature: Burlin Barr

BURLIN BARR
but the wolf tree was there and there was a place where // trophies hung: entire / bodies slung there in semi permanence // turning into everything / imaginable between a fresh body and shit and a variety // of trash; except Otis; he kept his right in front / of the house even

Recife, Brazil

Translation: Poems by Lara Solórzano Damasceno

LARA SOLÓRZANO DAMASCENO
Nosotras, who for millennia have steered warships, / sailing through seas made invisible. / Nosotras, who walked barefoot through valleys of stinging nettle, had our name ripped from the book of history / our biography from the scientific treatises

Ice fishing

June 2021 Poetry Feature

CORRIE WILLIAMSON
You lamented the absence of a human sound for longing, / like the loon has, like the wolf. I think of you reading / to your donkey the day he died, the passage where Odysseus / kisses the soil, how the beast moved away from you, / stood quietly in the clover, then returned...