Dillon Welch


After Jordan Stempleman

Nameless in our vicinities, we arrive on time
a bit later than expected. Careful—it is tomorrow
in a foreign country, something you’ll never
quite understand, but bless you for trying.
Our frequent grumbles so lost in the whoosh
of a freeway. So cardigan, snagged and waving
from a car antenna. How you watch close the turning
of a Ford at a stop sign. The correspondence
of vehicles in control of themselves. Obstinate
mouth-breather. Tornado-torn suburb. I paint you
random swaths on blank canvas. Careful—destructive
is the night and you, so beautiful in your remorseful
leaving. So badly I want to be your modest
tax forms, for you to turn me in on time, without
looking back.


Yahoo Answers Relives the Golden Days

Marcus, 37, from Tahoe learns
that all good cars still die in the dark
of a garage. They gather the dust
of themselves until their bodies
are made entirely of dead skin cells
& doubt. Marcus, 37, from Tahoe
learns slowly & without creases.
He divides his time like spilled
table salt. Like a transitioning
stick shift. He wears flannel indoors
& out & never worries about the cold
smack of wind. In two years, Marcus,
37, from Tahoe, will learn that
most of what he learned
when he was young was really
just a mariachi band playing
recognizable hits at the border.
A tin can in the shape of an oil stain
he saw in auto class in ’92.
Ninety-two times he figures
he’s seen a car stall out
on the interstate. Ninety-two times
he’s felt the same wind
& helpless angst that breaks
in a man’s chest in such
a familiar way.

Dillon Welch is a writer from Southern New Hampshire. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in CutBank, ILK, Jellyfish, PANK, Switchback, and other journals. He is currently Editor for American Microreviews and Interviews and Poetry Editor for the online quarterly Swarm.
PoetrymarkcDillon Welch