Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

Current global conflicts and discussions of borders spotlight the privilege of mobility. An American passport admits entry into 184 countries. Yet, even movement within the United States, for some people, is unsafe. Race and other identity markers, even today, circumscribe where people can travel and live with ease.

Today’s poem emerges from the familiar precarity of a policed existence, and yet, refuses to name that danger. It favors, instead, a nuanced narrative about being carried away by one’s freedom, imagination, and dreams.

My Father and I Drive to St. Louis for his Mother’s Funeral and the Wildflowers
by Chaun Ballard

There is a story in a journey  / a son takes /  with his father  / that circles  back to a field  / of flowers /  that stays
a field  of flowers  /  only  in  name  /  &  because  our eyes  pass  them  along  a road  /  so  /  there  is  a  point  in a
journey when all the years blur the same  / Meaning  /  the details  it took to get there  /  &  the details it takes to
get back —  /  &  there is  a point  in a  journey  when a volta  pivots  inside a narrative  /  when  a father  turns the
wheel over to his son  /  & this is the moment  when a father  releases his child  /  to the wind  /  & the boy  learns
to fail  /  or the boy learns to fly  /  &  we desire shade from our oak trees  /  where the robins  watch their nests /
& sure  /  this could be a story about how a parent never rests  /  once his hands relinquish control / & my father
never slept along the journey  /  (though  /  I’d seen him doze)  /  &  we mostly ate fast food  /  & paused for gas /
so  /  there is a point in the journey when  the journey  becomes a hill  /  a literal slope  /  somewhere  between a
field  /  &  Texas  /  where  our bodies  enter  a  highpoint  /  &  there  is  a tension  /  &  /  peripheral  to  a son  /  &  /
peripheral  to a father  /  are likely flowers  blowing  in a  wind  /  that could be  from  anywhere  /  &  we  could be
anyone  /  &  I could ask  for anything  /  so there  is a point  in a  journey  where I  become  a magic  lamp  /  &  my
father becomes a field  of wildflowers  /  &  the  thing  about a  magic lamp is  /  how gently  the  hands tremble  /
once the wheels turn slowly onto the shoulder  /  so there is  a point in the  journey  /  where I  pull off the road  /
&  I am asked to exit my vehicle  /  as if I  had a choice  /  so there is a point  in the  journey when  the  frame holds
/  &  the hill  stills  /  more  or less  its  green  /  &  the  dandelions  become  a haven  /  for  the  bees  to  stuff  their
pockets  / with gold  / &  /  by this standard  /  my father  can no longer be  likened to a  field  /  of  wildflowers /  &
/  the thing about a magic lamp /  is /  I only get three wishes /  &  my father is being cross-examined  /  as I make
use of them all / so there is a point  in a journey when  / who lives  to tell the tale /  &  / from  what  point of view /
become central to the climax  /  &  if the man toting  the gun has a  third-person  limited  /  &  if  the  plane  in the
sky has a god’s point of view  / I am all out of wishes  / & the thing about a journey is  /  at some point it becomes
a prayer / & what I mean is / from this point on / & the man  with the gun is all  about the math  /  &  see—  /  what
should be viewed as routine  / does not start out that way  /  &  what is likely to be believed  /  requires  /  neither
of us  /  so /  there is a point  in a journey  when it ends  the way  it begins  /  with  that which  appears different  /
upon the surface  /  &  the man  toting the gun  wants to  know  /  if our  stories  corroborate  /  &  to  think  /  all of
this came from my being  /  too  relaxed  /  from  allowing  my foot  to  coast  down  a hill  /  while I  mistook  a  field
of dandelions to be a field of wildflowers / & that was my mistake / & the plane that was said to have calculated
my duration  /  to distance  (before the  age of drones)  /  is not put  to a vote  /  So there  is a point  in  a  journey
when I return to the math  /  &  I have never  been one  for  arithmetic  /  so  forgive me  if my story  does not  add
up  /  I leave this problem for you  to  resolve  /  since  I know  that you  will  work  through  my  miscalculation  /  &
the thing  about a miscalculation  /  is how  a journey  could end  /  &  the  thing about  a journey ending is  /  how
easy it is  to  misfire  /  &  what  I  mean  is  /  how  easy  it  is  to  begin  with  a   field  of  flowers  /  &  end  /  with  no
flowers at all

"My Father and I Drive to St. Louis for His Mother's Funeral and the Wildflowers" by Chaun Ballard. Used by permission of the poet.