Navajo Roads

by Daniel Wale

A thick perfume of hot leather seats hangs
heavy in the air, which drags out
scraping melodies through an open window and
I – hand on the wheel – use up
a little more of man’s hydrocarbon quota.
I sweat like a pig; the acrid fluid could fill
a lager can to its corroded brim. The chime of
falling coins has echoed long in these metallic walls.
Two hundred years ago, that Mercedes was my horse. Two hundred
years ago, its chassis of bone lay in the dust. Bleached legacies
leaked from a bullet hole as you dragged me deeper,
further through salted earth. Two thousand
nail-strikes ago, the tracks – your steel blankets,
hot and sick – left us choking in your wake.