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Claire Keyes The Dodge In the Woods When we pass a car junked in the woods, I feel a spike of fear, conjure up gangsters, a dead body festering in the trunk. Oh come on, my husband says, it's just a Dodge. He turns back to check it out, reminding me that country people ditch cars all the time: in their front yards, in the forest. Get a few guys, a couple of six packs, flip it over. A worthless shit-box of a car, this Dodge. A coupe with swept wings, nothing can camouflage its pathos: no joy rides, no agile lovers wrestling in its back seat. Weeds and grasses assume a weary familiarity and in the lee of its bruised fender, seedlings root and stretch towards the sun. Soon a forest growing up and through the car— as in the Yucatan, the Mayan ruins. In centuries, prying shovels will open the mound to reveal this icon of our times, its blank headlamps that signify a wired intelligence, once feared, then displaced, perhaps a god. |
Photo by Emily Sharp Detail - click for full image. |