—somewhere in Slovakia, on the way back from Kraków, 2011
as we passed through in a small bus, fog clouding the air.
The bus whipped and leaned, but Jerry had control
— he was the driver (he hated loading our bags;
the only joy was in the union break and
another cigarette … and he’d have
that pack and two more loaded
before we made it across
the border). I saw
Jesus out the bus window, he had
tears of blood — or maybe it was paint
running down the face of
this plastic mannequin hung up to die in Slovakia.
The bus rounded the bend and all that remained
was the rush of wind against the windshield
and His silhouette in my head suspended before the fog —
the glowing remains of bright lights and
sunshine behind my retina.
Once I heard there were angels in the fog,
endowing the peaks of mountains and broken castles
with life running from cracked shells.
So much we concern over the dead
— their thoughts, images, exteriors…
this bus moved in a direct line from
one graveyard to another. There was Jerry
at the helm and he was the mastermind,
guiding the Americans on their
leisurely way to Hell.
All aboard for tours of Slovakia!
(On my way out of Hell I met a monkey
and only with a stick was I able
to avoid being eaten.)
At that moment the angels and the fog
moved in concentric motions and the bus was
consumed by it, deserting the mountains and
their life, the wind and its about-face,
the turn of the turning leaves.
And I can’t get it out of my head,
a road cutting through the grass.
The same train-tracks
over and over again,
another graveyard more firmly
planted in my mind than anywhere on Earth.
The bus broke suddenly and
my face hit the back of Jerry’s seat
in front of me, pressing
my glasses to my face (God I hope
they’re not bent I hope they’re
not bent and mangled)
Now the bus had stopped and
Jerry was outside. There was
a blue car in front of us and Jerry
rapped on the driver’s-side window.
The window rolled down and Jerry
began to yell and shake his hands.
The driver leaned his head out
and it was Jesus with his painted
tears bleeding all over the asphalt.
Joe Taylor 