Jackie Hedeman

Drivethrough

Betty Draper said only boring people
are bored. Tell me about Nebraska.

Some road trippers have a lot to say, 
but here’s my mom, Coast-born.

She calls New Yorkers “provincial.”
Their incurious number and propensity

to tweet; we always know their weather.
We’re selfish too. Protect westbound I-80,

sky orange, threaded cotton candy,
glowing field. Another time, lightning

slash between blinking wind turbines. 
We talk sky easily, watching for green,

so how about cone flowers? Self-sewing
ruffs in the prairie’s ready-made bouquet.

If you are brave enough, wise in silence
drive right on to the sun-bleached border.

The car may overheat in a place called Dix. 
I can’t convince you with crags or foam crash,

eucalyptus, ransacked treasures
behind glass, marquees, authority,

and, I love the city. My girlfriend, from sea’s edge,
loves me, mentions the chip on my shoulder. 

It’s deep, but I would rather know this particular 
heat. Try and convince: we are worthy of awe.

There was an antelope, out-watching, on the ridge
behind the shuttered diner, but fuck nature

poetry. My nose is frying in this Taco Bell lot. Queer 
spotting queer, the cashier gifted me Skittles, saw me 

away. In college I changed the way I say “milk,” but here 
is everyone I love, and life overfills airplane windows.

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Jackie Hedeman is a queer Midwesterner. She holds an MFA from The Ohio State University. Her work has appeared in Fugue, Electric Literature, Autostraddle, Entropy, The Offing, and elsewhere. With Molly Olguín, she is the co-creator of The Pasithea Powder, a queer, sci-fi, epistolary audio drama. Find her at www.jacquelinhedeman.com