Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

MT-200 East, Humming

by Alicia Mountain

Last night I read a high of negative five,
but the truck starts.
It’s as old as I am,
twenty-five and a half for now.

I put Stevie Nicks in the truck next to me.
Along the frozen Blackfoot, empty
company houses wait for the mill to run again.
Stevie asks me about my “lovers.”

This is what we do
when we drive through Montana—
talk about girls
and the desert towns that hold captive
the softest parts of our hunger.

She says, you were in my dream last night
standing in the middle of the spiral jetty.
You were emptying the stones
from your heavy pockets.
I wonder what it meant?

It means I’m more interested in
not drowning lately.
The hills to the east are
a black and white photo in this
avalanche snow.

I think about saying,
sometimes I wish you were my mom.
Instead, I reach for the end of her shawl
and pull it around my own shoulder
until we are held together in burgundy.

Once, when I told her I was afraid
the rest of my life would be silver springs
she pointed to the sky, saying,
if the voices follow you down
let them haunt you.