Lisette Alonso

The Promise of a Full Tank of Gas

It is the possibility that comes with combustion, all that fire blooming in the
engine, mapping out an endpoint vague as tarot cards. I could leave
everything I own right here. Travel straight up Florida’s middle and end up
wherever the needle kisses Empty. Allowing for headwinds and hitchhiking
apparitions, it might be enough to put me over the state line and whatever
beckons. Maybe it’s a restaurant serving tepid decaf, or a sink hole that used
to be someone’s modest ranch-style home. It’s just that there are days when
I feel I could summon a hurricane with my thoughts. Sometimes your spirit
demands to be shaken, but you instantly regret it because there is already
enough devastation in the world. When I lived on 27th street, I’d stare out
toward the racetrack and wonder where the flamingos might fly to if they
tired of their safety, of how all their nutrients are delivered in a single pellet.
It is a liability living in a state so stretched and swampy, like being at the end
of a hallway in a decades long nightmare. Yes, the blue skies and greenery
are a godsend, but sometimes all that birdsong can make you weary.
Sometimes no matter how fast you move, being sandwiched between so
much slash pine can feel exactly like standing still.