Claire S. Lee
Self-Portrait as a Hitchhiker
Say there is more to the vertical thumb
than a fast-paced command, say
it is a plea for love from a stranger to a stranger
& let the conversation lick the hitchhiker
empty, the cold-blooded sounds darting past
the engine, & let the beggar surrender
in the comfort of the passenger seat, brimming
with lukewarm confessions. Before he hums
phantom, the apocryphal stories he gave & left
to the ambivalent woman handling
ignition will be retold countless to the family
he tried to escape, like a turntable
that fails to stop. His house stained with children
who shudder away from their mother
who can’t pronounce “milk” or “squirrel” or
“radio”, but can speak to her
own mother back in Bundang, with men who
gnashed themselves silent for a decade
& forgot to open up again, resentment for
America driven into their chest & never
released, with the uncle who will smoke
Marlboro until his wife falls to lung cancer.
The address to the driver, always: anywhere
but here. The thumb, still lingering toward the
sky, empty of birds & full of shrapnel, trying
to say: There is more than this, I swear.
Claire S. Lee is from Southern California. Her writing has been recognized by Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Ringling College of Art and Design, and the National Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, and can be found in Inklette, Indianapolis Review, and Rising Phoenix Review, among others.
Return to November 2018 Edition
Say there is more to the vertical thumb
than a fast-paced command, say
it is a plea for love from a stranger to a stranger
& let the conversation lick the hitchhiker
empty, the cold-blooded sounds darting past
the engine, & let the beggar surrender
in the comfort of the passenger seat, brimming
with lukewarm confessions. Before he hums
phantom, the apocryphal stories he gave & left
to the ambivalent woman handling
ignition will be retold countless to the family
he tried to escape, like a turntable
that fails to stop. His house stained with children
who shudder away from their mother
who can’t pronounce “milk” or “squirrel” or
“radio”, but can speak to her
own mother back in Bundang, with men who
gnashed themselves silent for a decade
& forgot to open up again, resentment for
America driven into their chest & never
released, with the uncle who will smoke
Marlboro until his wife falls to lung cancer.
The address to the driver, always: anywhere
but here. The thumb, still lingering toward the
sky, empty of birds & full of shrapnel, trying
to say: There is more than this, I swear.
Claire S. Lee is from Southern California. Her writing has been recognized by Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Ringling College of Art and Design, and the National Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, and can be found in Inklette, Indianapolis Review, and Rising Phoenix Review, among others.
Return to November 2018 Edition