Tim
It could have been two or twenty
years since we last spoke
I lift the receiver and dial a number I know
in my heart
“Yes?” he says picking up mid conversation
as if we are always mid conversation
as if we are
always
I splutter and relay
details of CIA stalkings
drones hovering overhead in the night
elaborate plans with weapons and escape
When I pause from my frenetic outburst
he says, “ah, you talked to Tim.”
Through telephone lines he wraps me in his arms
and tells me of the deep haze that shrouds our friend
a similar one decades later will ensnare him too
but that’s the knowledge of memory
and I am helpless to his descent
Yet in that moment
of which it is just that
a breath in unmarked time
from across a continent
he holds me now
as if I never left
Hitchhiker
The walking house-less root our society
remind us of nomadic pasts
not home-less,
as we carry our hearth and clan with us
along with indispensable pieces of string, bolts, and
a Playmobil girl thrown from a car that lands next to the apple core that disintegrates
seeds embed in the crack of the pavement
sensing dirt
and life.
So many stories to tell from what we carry in our pockets
army knife, dental floss, pen.
Essentials on the road.
In Shibuya I take a ride from a trucker
endless repetitions of Whitney Houston on cassette
he asks me for sex.
Very politely and in English.
Pulls into the lavish truck stop with
massage chairs and steam rooms
his arms spread wide awaiting
my leap forward into them
“Sex now?” he queries.
From my small catalog of Japanese words
I pull out a few strong roadblocks
“No! You are dirty dish water! Dishes! No! Kitanai.”
The universe protecting me
I was not scared,
only annoyed and grateful.
Once Marisa and I hitchhiked together,
me Thelma, to her Louise
her trench coat harboring large kitchen knives needed for work at the rally in
Pahrump, Nevada where they scarred the land.
They pick us up
question aloud if we conceal weapons
and drive us
head for our cliff.
This time outside of Parker, Arizona
I tell K. “I think we need to jump”
this quiet Cadillac
I diagnose with
narcolepsy
asleep at the wheel
we get out at the one tree.
Safe, alone, hot,
we eat the peanut butter sandwich and apple in my pocket
giving thanks, again
to the safety net
provided by trusting.
Warriors of the road
we do not sleep in motels
but under the overpass
secluded in our tent
or under the stars watching Arcturus overhead.
Vagabond, nomad, traveler, pilgrim, walker
we are not lost.
We have found
a sisterhood, imaging our retirement in the Home for Aged Dykes.
We, The Bone People:
“… all together, we are the instruments of change."
Bio: Ilyse Simon
I saw the total eclipse in 2024 and began to write on the back of a crumpled napkin while stuck in traffic. I write because my sanity depends on it. Much of my writing has me on a hot dusty road somewhere from Vegas to nowhere. In my salad days I dropped out of college and walked across the country, twice, for peace. I lived on the road for almost seven years, calling home wherever I was. In Austin I lived in a warehouse with 15 lesbians, Steve, 9 dogs, 2 cats, and 4 chickens. We named the chickens Breakfast, Snack, Lunch, and Dinner. In Vegas I was an anti nuclear activist and lived either in a tent by ground zero or in town with my poker playing partner. I’ve slept under overpasses, hitchhiked all over the country, been a dumpster diving freegan, and hope to god my kids don’t the things I did.
I rebelled. I am a queer, Jewish road warrior who left the path carefully sanded for her. When I dropped out of college the second time my advisor said, “Honey, you’re not dropping out, you’re moving on.” She was so right. When I am with my peace walking family I am at home.
I feel outside of most things. After a quarter century of marriage to a transgendered alcoholic I’m now a single mom to two neurodivergent kids. Parenting for me looks like the last days of Hunger Games. My parenting journey is that only other adoptive parents and parents of extreme cherubs understand. And, having been an anti-nuclear activist, I have good experience at dealing with fallout. Parenting is a different planet for folks with kids born with such baggage.
Now, my bucket list includes tapping maple trees and going to Minnesota because other than Hawaii, I’ve been to all the other states. I listen to birds while sitting outside on my porch swing in the early hours when non menopausal women are sleeping. I now live in rural upstate New York where there is more water and green, though I think of the desert with love and visit often.