Turn Signal

In just the blink of an eye a life can change, red-hallowed in the dream grim of life. That is how it is when you follow the turns of another and then find yourself at the end of a dead-end, muddied road that leads only to a grove of heaven growing pines.

Now, only a three point turn with worry of falling off the road into the bushes or soft loam of barrowed pit, but there are no other choices in this vehicle that wants to catch speed, be headed somewhere.

While lying in the tub, washing the grime of a healthy workout I think about all of the triangles in my life beginning with mother, father and child, and how each successive attempt at romance lands one in some state of the one just before, or the one to follow, these are those places in which the three are not the magic number of science, but the hard corners of being in position of the point alone while the other two are both ends of a line, forming a looking-into one-another’s angles, eyes, no tough-bank-billiard shots here, just a straight shot hit to the corner pocket.

Yet, yes, in its beauty, a turn signal, a necklace to be joined, a round made entirely of strung projectile, clovis-point flint beads to be draped around an aging neck, sharks teeth of all those who’ve vampired a bite of your most vulnerable flesh and now untaught to brave the wearing, to be adorned a desert queen with the jewelry tunnel of making what seemed a dark road the way out and up.

Photo Credit: Dan LeFebvre/unsplash