Excursion

Placida Morales was working on a poem. So far, she had:

“Across the ages, through the streak of stars
A summing up of Jupiter and Mars.
Or more banal, a human undertaking
Two disparate souls, a strange and bright lovemaking,
Part of the plan, but no one’s plan at all
Feelings of belonging rise and fall
We’re in a soup, my friend, a stew, a brew
Nothing ever ends, it starts anew.
My empty vessel fills, and drains again
Who knows what’s planned, or where, or when?
I grasp at smaller things, I smile, I fawn.
Memories swirl around me in the dawn.
Will this soul encounter yours once more?
My shadow, my nemesis, my open door?”

Oh, that verse was so derivative and conservative! And what was with the “my friend” bit? Though she loved the sonnet form, Placida was aware that others did not. Why was she not hip and contemporary and socially relevant like so many poets she knew in town? She could pull off her style at a live reading, but on the page, the words were stale. She wanted to describe her experience with Ted, but how? Still, the job of a poet was to do just that: describe the indescribable.

She had verified the legitimacy of the anthology request. The source of that email DID have to do with a project at Yale University Press. Who knew what editor suffered a bee in her bonnet? There may have been some pressure from local writers, but since when had that affected Yale’s decisions? Facing her own inadequacy in being able to conjure a response was demoralizing. She wasn't going to drag out any older poems! Placida was the only one reading her own writing these days, so that might have had something to do with it. She could ask some acquaintances for an opinion, but she was reluctant. That was nothing new. She knew from her years in New Haven writing circles: If they said it was good, she would not have believed them. If they said it needed work, she would be crushed.

What the hell was she even writing about? She hadn’t contacted Ted at all, although she had his email address. She didn’t want to be disappointed, either by his lack of response or by his actual response. She promised herself to never get into this situation again. She was old enough to be Ted’s mother— in a teen mistake sort of way. She didn’t need the complication, the feelings. She figured he didn’t either.

And Edwina Campion’s reaction to her daring non-Placido beardless-ness had not been very satisfying, Placida could not forget that moment. Did she look that masculine to the young woman? That old? In a few days she’d have another session with Edwina during which she’d have to listen to a review of Edwina’s “press conference” about the solar panels and how she had rediscovered her lost, true career as a sexy media pundit.

Placida checked her bank account. Yes, Edwina was keeping up with her payments. Other clients were keeping up with their payments. There was nothing to worry about. Except— everything.

Ted was barreling along in a mild, indecipherable panic, from U.S. 40 to 24 through Nashville, to 64 into St. Louis. From there, he figured, U.S. 70 would take him through Kansas City and Denver. But then he’d switch to U.S. 80 through Salt Lake City, and tolerate dry, daunting Nevada before jumping on U.S. 5 through northern California and into Oregon, with home just ahead of him. In St. Louis, he rented a room at a Super 8 and collapsed in exhaustion after eight hours on the cruiser. He wanted to email Placida, but decided against it. She was probably not into being contacted.

In the middle of the night Ted awoke from a dream of floating in outer space, reaching out to touch a planet or two with bulky astronaut gloves, not being close enough. There had been a feeling of longing that was unfamiliar and unpleasant. It took him an hour to get back to sleep.

— Macoff