An Extended Definition of Unclassifiable Knowing
Benjamin Banneker at Jones Point
Between Bears and Bees
Dita e Verës
Drunk Driving
Fall
Finding the Right “Keiko”
First Snow
Hometown
Intersection
Kawana Campsite
Mosaic
Notes to THE WORLD
One Peach
Properties of Light
Sea Fog: A History
St. Felicity Watches St. Perpetua’s Executioner
The Reckoning
The Scissors of Hope and Despair
Drunk Driving
Jill McDonough
Drunk in the cab, I joke about drunk driving, how I’d
be fine with a little meth to sober me up. Just a bump
to get me up and running, I shrug, and I could totally
drive. This is hilarious, impossible, a joke that leads
to gratitude we're not in jail, how Susan thought pruno
was Pruneaux. I say I drive better after a couple drinks.
Loosens me up, the stupid shit people actually say,
and sometimes mean. Pauline asks why I’m grateful
I’m not in jail. Because I've seen it? I’ve also seen
a popcorn-white apartment, Salt Lake City; seen green
suburbs where I don’t drive kids to soccer, jazz dance class.
All these places you can meet great people. That which
does not kill us makes us cool. But for centuries, slutty
ladies who did whatever the fuck they felt like often found
themselves in jail, or beat up, dead. I feel for everyone
in prison, even that asshole murderer who talked too much.
But I feel like he deserves it. For being rude, taking up class time.
The ladies who killed somebody, driving drunk, will break
your heart. They sag under the weight of the bodies they hit.
I never drove drunk: my dad’s a surgeon, used
to wake me up when I was little, take me to work
so I could hold teenaged drunk drivers’ hands while
dad fixed them up and they cried, asked, kept asking
what happened? What happened to my friends?