Iowa Writes
JEREMY B. JONES El Choque
It isn't obvious what what happened, likely speed and of course, carelessness—the motorcycle resting on its side, blue and quick. The city doesn't stop, only one lane funnels past, and this is an annoyance to taxistas and important traffic. Some still manage to live the myth of slow Latin time and wade inches from the yellow line, forming a soft square around the body— a coffin of humanity. The body is draped, a fresh blanket not stopping at the chin, but running over the head. A couple watches it all, late twenties, four years deep in marriage, three minutes deep into ice cream cones: vanilla, a McDonald invasion, with the lines of soft— serve, and the brightness of artificial white. The two stare without word, without emotion, without time—the man with a hand in his pocket and his other manning the ice cream.
It isn't obvious what what happened, likely speed and of course, carelessness—the motorcycle resting on its side, blue and quick. The city doesn't stop, only one lane funnels past, and this is an annoyance to taxistas and important traffic. Some still manage to live the myth of slow Latin time and wade inches from the yellow line, forming a soft square around the body— a coffin of humanity. The body is draped, a fresh blanket not stopping at the chin, but running over the head. A couple watches it all, late twenties, four years deep in marriage, three minutes deep into ice cream cones: vanilla, a McDonald invasion, with the lines of soft— serve, and the brightness of artificial white. The two stare without word, without emotion, without time—the man with a hand in his pocket and his other manning the ice cream. The woman, the safer, double-fists the cone, her gaze set upon the white sheet covering, burying the rider. The man looks to his ice cream, trying to avoid dripping in the Central American heat and sets his mouth to the task— licking, slurping around the cone, saving any falling cream from the pavement. He's fixed straight ahead, still stooping over his cone, and imagines the white sheet as his ice cream&dmash;the same vanilla and the same white lines—he licks furiously around the cone, hoping to keep the sheet from melting to the pavement. He imagines eating it all, the cold cream of death sliding quickly down his throat, escaping the midday sun, erupting into his stomach. The woman has not shifted, she watches the scene, boxed in yellow, like a telenovela—she sees nothing of the man's frenzied eating. He moves his lips quickly and completely around the cone, not shifting his view from the sheet—the body—convicted to save every last drop. Her gaze is thick, hypnotic. Death like an image, blurry, weightless, escapes her—she stares only at colors, shapes—the policía writing it all on pads like a script. She holds it like gossip until the rider is finally lifted, sheet and all—rolled into the ambulancia—the man's delusion broken, the woman's television blackened. They turn in silence, empty cones in hands, and stroll up the sidewalk, away from a falling sun.
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About Iowa Writes
Since 2006, Iowa Writes has featured the work of Iowa-identified writers (whether they have Iowa roots or live here now) and work published by Iowa journals and publishers on The Daily Palette. Iowa Writes features poetry, fiction, or nonfiction twice a week on the Palette.
In November of 2008, the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) designated Iowa City, Iowa, the world's third City of Literature, making the community part of the UNESCO Creative Cities Network.
Iowa City has joined Edinburgh, Scotland and Melbourne, Australia as UNESCO Cities of Literature.
Find out more about submitting by contacting iowa-writes@uiowa.edu
JEREMY B. JONES Jeremy received an MFA in nonfiction writing at The University of Iowa in May 2009. He now teaches writing at Charleston Southern University. Before coming to Iowa in 2006, he lived in Central America, the setting of the poem. Jeremy B. Jones's website |
This page was first displayed on December 07, 2009
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