Rest Stop//Jayme Sponsel

I step on the gas 
On the West Virginia turnpike
Hug the curve of the mountain road
At 80 miles per hour
The speed means more control
Despite the wheel hubs almost brushing
The guard rails and the ravine below
Ready to swallow us in green

It has something 
To do with tire traction–
I don't know enough about physics
But it's what I've been told
Learning to drive with my dad
In the snowy bluffs of the driftless area
At an age where I believed anything 
I was told 

We’ll get where we’re going
Either way

When we pull off at the rest stop
I'll open the door to empty
The Gatorade bottle
Of what I've left in there
Stay unmoving in the car
Watch everyone else
Going wherever they go
To relieve themselves

I avoid the eyes of passersby
As if they can sense my fear 
Of laws that put me here
And piece together something
I don't want read
By fleeting strangers
And their veiled expressions 

I hate it all–
How the sun on the rear view mirror
Accentuates my beard shadow–
How I fill in the gaps in their faces
Read contempt in their glances
That could be meant for anything really
The overflowing trash on the curb
The road ahead, or the backdrop–
A thick verdant wall, ever encroaching,
That will absorb us all, given time,
But for now, ends abruptly, at the concrete

How hard it must be to be those trees.
Nobody asks as they cut and peel you away
Whether it would bother you
To restrict where you sprawl.

Eventually, we must get moving again
Start the car engine
Blast away the soupy summer air
Save up our breaths to steel our bodies
For the next stop

Jayme Sponsel (she/her) is a librarian and writer based in Davidson, North Carolina. Originally from Minnesota, she has made her home among the cardinals and dogwoods for over a decade. She can be found on Bluesky under the handle @jqsponsel.bsky