TRIP by Matthew Gellman • Cleaver Magazine
The slick silver thread of highway pulls taut over the Keystone State. Nothing is as I imagined it, says Mother to the oil field churning with the polished quiet of cash for longer than a mile, eyes greener in the copper industrial light. It is 1999. My father has built a wall inside her, rust on roses, a wheel’s fever. The child kicks like a miniature Samson, swims the darkening length.
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