Between Money and Land
Nick Snow
Across bruise black asphalt, the gourd tree shakes
as though alive. Bound together by two-by-fours
and wire, the hollowed pods bounce in the breeze,
waiting to entice swallows in spring. Against the yawning
horizon, in peaceful sway, it’s nearly real. When the gas
pump thuds off, I try to envision the total volume,
6.706 gallons, but can’t cook up a container that big.
Paying, I skim the tops of the newspapers, mumbling
abbreviations and counting the green arrows pointing
to wealth in the ether. By the exit I study the atlases
and dated maps, find myself wanting to address
the stark cartography, the representation of roads
and homes. I want to make a correction, a record
that tells the terrain’s truth: half its citizens are crushed
by fear of rent; its children go hungry after apple
and cracker lunch; three dead deer line Plymouth Drive,
with shattered crown and fly-cloud eye;
this land is covered in red.