Road

We slowed at the cattle bridge,
slow enough to catch the forest's depth,
glimpsed like a scalp through thinning hair,
a future, a past,
my father heaved us into an elbow corner,
leant us against our straps,
the sound of latches snicking
and four other things that kept us alive:

the fan belt,
the brake pads,
the carburator,
the varifocals.

We got to the barn and played pool
and made our own horror movies
with the camcorder:
Anna fell screaming behind the sofa,
Harry brought the knife down.