The Old Road to Garry
by Phillip Aijian
The new highway to Garry surpasses superlative;
is a miracle of convenience and all who take it
report excellent fuel economy,
napping children, and apparently
the road even sings to them.
Cheeky engineers etched grooves
into the concrete so that
if you drive between 50 and 100 miles per hour,
your tires will whine, hum, or roar
Beethoven at you. “Road to Joy”
they call it. It switches to his 5th symphony
if you start veering off the shoulder. Har har.
I can only surmise this would have
pleased him immensely,
and in short order he would have
demanded the construction
of a symphonic autobahn
leading nowhere in particular.
Yes, all reach their destination—
even ahead of schedule.
Still I’ve left too many cities
where I wanted to stay. Friends
there bade me endure,
having also taken new and newish roads.
In Manhattan I stood
between Rockefeller Plaza
and Radio City Music Hall
like a piece of gristle
caught between the back molars
whose business it is to gleam
and crush. Sooner or later
the floss always came.
Escorted out or exiled thus,
I will attempt the other way to Garry,
and I shall expect to get lost
insofar as I will occasionally lose
my sense of direction—which is to say
that blithe confidence that tends to come
with Google Maps. I expect to lose
sight of the path insofar as a path
has come to be known as
a narrow congregation of pebbles,
or a scar of dirt that skews
along a mountain’s jaw,
where plants largely forbear to grow.
I shall hope to ask for help from the birds
in the manner of St. Francis,
be they condor or falcon.
One musn’t be too choosy.
I shall hope to laugh, and not panic,
when I lose my pocket knife,
and say to myself
The Lord has need of it.
Hunger shall finally be my companion,
and walk with me some distance,
disclosing her face and voice
which I have only ever suspected
from great distance,
such has been her reputation.
I shall hope to approach
if not arrive upon gratitude before
I reach the city limits, myself
at last a ruddy sun in setting day.
Then to be content with my light
such as it shines, and descend
trailing stories like clouds—
not all of them told,
but all of them seen.
Phillip Aijian holds a PhD in Renaissance drama and theology from UC Irvine, as well as an MA in poetry from the University of Missouri. He teaches literature and religious studies and has published in journals like ZYZZYVA, Heron Tree, Poor Yorick, and Zocalo Public Square. He lives in California with his wife and children. His poetry and art can be found at www.phillipaijian.com.
