Utah Series
by Andrew Baron
Preface
You can’t park
there anymore,
so if you left it in the glove
box they’d just tow it with
the car.
Just write it in the frost
somewhere between here
and Salt Lake City I’ll
read it when I get
there.
I
The Drive
There’s nothing in religion
that isn’t in the hills outside Ogden.
Days ago the snow in runs and patches
was a blanket on a world you hadn’t named.
Come a sinner. Drive the back way
through feedlots of cattle and children,
with her beside you pregnant and beloved.
Come with no reservation through the cold fires of the holy.
Come in reverence and write them
in the moisture on the windows
of the most abandoned buildings:
these places’ names.
Winter gospel.
Come a saint.
II.
The Salt Flats
No one really knows, making all who claim to liars.
But consensus is a word, and so must be acknowledged.
It holds that Brigham Young was by comparison more decent
to the most wretched than their state-ordained protectors.
‘It costs us less to feed them than to fight them.’
I lived here in a brick house and was sheltered from God’s wrath.
I rode a Yamaha 450 across the salt flats outward
from the city until the salt gave way to brine, then sank.
I was wretched in a land where the Shoshone sank their arms
into the hills and ate and made lives across that salt.
No one really knows, but word is that the Mormons would ride out
with gifts and food, and give them. Word is also that they murdered.
One New Year’s we drove out through fog, past the flats to Grantsville,
she and I, to watch the fireworks light their dirt yards.
Where the motorcycle sank, hip-deep in the brine I saw for miles,
east to the Oquirrh mountains, west to the west desert where
Shoshone and Mormon looked hand in hand to heaven through blood.
I lived here as their bastard, and waited in the brine to be delivered.
I was decent in the seam between their visions.
III
15th East, 15th South
Sit and look
out on the landscape
long gone and the same
of a time when she was sixteen
and a woman, legs rested
on the counter of that drug store
as I played video wrestling.
I saw her years later, which
is now years past. The drug store gone this place
is still the same,
These trees those trees.
IV
The Suburbs
When I came back
from an old country
I delivered
paper to the suburbs.
It was ugly in reverse
proportion to time.
That is, the longer
the more beautiful.
The middle of the
night was the heart
of everywhere the moment
of the embolism,
the pressure forced
them from their beds
at 3 a.m. to spot-
weld the bicycles of
their children. If you need to burn
a sofa behind a brand-
new house, do it
here. Come ye and hear
the night world of behind
the Village Inn.
And then go in. Sit down.
The longer, the more beautiful.
V
The Canyon
aside for Lorine Niedecker
The road through
the canyon and
the snow and what time gives:
gonna be a father.
These friends in the car and I live,
now, farther
apart than I’d have us.
If close
be kept in words then count us thankful
for the flagrantly modern (email, etc.
and count it obvious that she,
scrubbing the wood and linoleum
of the island she rhymed into the world,
knew from the lobster pots what modern was,
(and didn’t care)
and so was more of it than we.
At times
I’ve thought her rhymes
were stupid and her story sad.
On the road through other canyons, in different times,
may a daughter say the same about her dad.
IV
Afterword
There are reasons, things here
people there, but having
never done it I don’t have the words
for leaving.
There was a rat
lived under our garage,
and wore a path from his hole to where
the bird seed fell from
the bird feeder
and back.
What a shitty life I
thought, and now
it’s mine, wearing
down the highway from there
to here, and back.
Wait for me at the base of that mountain.
Dress warm and bring some seed.
I always wanted to write a country song.
Before the sun kills the grass
and the brine mud hardens,
I’ll be coming home to feed.