111. To the Stars Through Difficulty: Amy Nixon

The heat squeezes the house like the band man would his wheezy box.
Inside it, the husband and freckled boys shelter in the kind of scorched-dead slumber
that hems up the remnants of a day spent in the fields. It is an unexpected mercy,

this sleep, and it gives them the legs to go again before dawn cracks across

the backs of the limestone hills; it gives them an oasis to aim for when the afternoon
stretches long, close as they are here to the unblinking eye of the gods. A tree

or two wouldn’t be too much to ask, the woman thinks from the porch where a sea
used to live, as she rocks away midnight and the next hour and the next. She never looks
up: she has no need. She hums as she works by touch in the ocean of dark, stitching stars

firmly to flannel squares. They will be glad of an extra quilt come winter.

– Amy Nixon

90. Notes on the Journey

The road is just a road,

be it a rut carved in the

wind-flayed grass

or a sticky blacktop finger

pointing to the horizon.

The road is just a road,

under blistered soles

or bald tires or

(more likely) both

at the same time.

The road is just a road -

it’s not the sad filling station oasis

squatting beside it;

it’s not the glittering ocean

or bleak cliff beyond it;

it’s not even the ghosts

that pierce it at regular

intervals, like mile markers,

like buoys of hope

and umpteenth chances and

rusted-shut dreams.

The road is just a road,

second cousin to

the churning ship wake,

a reflection of the airplane

tracks that zipper

the forgiving sky.

The road is just a road,

and it goes three ways:

where you’ve always been

and where you could be,

but mostly where you

are, right now.

– Amy Nixon

Amy Nixon is an award-winning poet and song-writer who lives in Manhattan, KS with her teenage son and three very spoiled cats.  She is passionate about architecture, genealogy, and guacamole, among other things.