Issue Thirty-Two - Summer 2018

Wordless

By Susan Rae Sampson

When I was two years old
and never quiet, you said
you’d toss me in the Plymouth coupe
and take me for a ride.
Only seeing the Oregon countryside
we passed
would shut me up.

Then you were 82,
brain wounded by a stroke,
housebound and bored
so I loaded you in my Chrysler
and took you for a ride.
You pointed out the route you wanted
up the Umpqua River
where you’d once seen elk.

We came across a whole herd
grazing in a farmer’s field
complacent as cows
and I couldn’t think
of a thing to say.

Copyright Sampson 2018

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