GABRIEL OLADIPO
THERE'S A HOLE THAT PIERCES RIGHT THROUGH ME
(1)
In a few hours April will look in Esther's eyes for the first time.
It's 9 PM. The black van slices through the highway
as snow falls hard like rain. April sweats
in her black jacket; the van's heater, like its engine,
gives everything, a dog's mouth.
They met online. Esther bubbled up
from the sludge of the feed in the form of a clip,
33 seconds long, standing stock-still
in front of a crowd. A dark room. Her blonde locs.
Footage shaking like the crowd's noise comes in waves
that crash against the phone, camera
close enough to see Esther's eyes are a pool
of oil, one April falls into at the first sight
of Esther's voice, clear as blue water and that separate
from the night of her gaze. April watched this
six months ago. Under all that sound April hears the sound
of jagged breath. The clip ends. April writes
a message. It's her own breath.
(2)
Now April heads to see Esther, in this van,
where she's been since early morning.
The internet said she couldn't afford a flight.
but could try a stranger,
this white woman driving
to the same city. The first leg of the journey
wasn't too bad. It's only when they stop for gas
as the sun sets, she says I need a nap, he's driving now,
a white man appears from the back of the van as if conjured.
April hadn't known he'd been there this whole time.
When he drives the speakers play a droning, looping lament,
the van moves fifteen miles faster.
It's 9:05. Since he started driving he and April
haven't said a word. She tries not to notice
the van's tremors. Her white iPhone shines
brighter than the moon.
A woman in the driver's seat of a blue Thunderbird,
boiled ink sky, a large McDonald's bag
and hunting rifle in the passenger seat.
She holds a double cheeseburger in her right hand,
black binoculars in her left. She sees
her target walk out of the bank.
Street full of people but she knows her
by the blue alexandrite wrapped to her neck
and her pink hair. She smiles, shoves the burger in her mouth,
grips the gun with ketchup-stained fingers.
April's head hits her window as the van swerves
across two lanes of traffic to catch the exit.
Pain blooms in the corner of her skull,
anger too, but it's smothered by her breath
like the snow outside. They're still
hours from Esther, I want to see you
so bad. April rewinds to the target leaving the bank,
where the camera zooms in, her pink hair
blots out the sky and the alexandrite burns
against her neck like blue fire. How she smiles
at the hunter like her eyes cut through the night.
Click. This moment is April's forever.
Beyoncé in a bathtub with white bubbles
like a Renaissance painting, I want
to feel that kind of light. An explosion
in the heart of a city, smoke that swallows
half the sky, power to keep me safe
from all my enemies. Foamy white waves
against a blue night sky, an orgasm
heard just beyond the camera's eye.
She saves things like this, shares them
with Esther. In this way they share dreams.
April is a witch, someone who wants
everything in this world. Before she died
April's mother was a witch.
(3)
A witch is someone who wants everything in this world.
They're parked outside 7/11, van washed out
under the store sign. The farther they've gone
into their journey the colder it's been. Despite that cold
April stands outside, leaned against the van
to stretch her legs. Snow falls
softer now. 7/11 is an island
in a sea of roads. April looks into the night
and thinks of Esther. They meet online
through digital debris folded into flowers
and voice notes left at all hours. Hey.
The noise and the light from the cars
in the main road off in the distance press
up against her like stars. She breathes.
She doesn't realize she hasn't done it until she does it.
Just wanted to say this made me think of you
and I miss you, and can't wait to see you.
From the very first their talks
like the ocean, accepting everything, despite her fears.
What April sent out wasn't rejected, only amplified,
washing back to shore in beautiful, mutant forms.
He's taking a while. She's had her fill of the cold.
From outside she can see the man from the waist up
in some sort of argument with the cashier.
The doors slide open. A tall figure in a black jacket
face covered by a black scarf, Flamin' Hot Cheetos and Monster
under one arm, walks to a car several spots down.
He sets his things on the hood of his car.
He doesn't get in the car. He leans against it,
facing April, staring.
She stays facing him, stuck there. Too aware
of her feet and hands growing number
with each passing second.
He walks towards her.
She breathes. Out of her mouth
comes a string of bees
that drift towards him and mass around him
force him into his car until he drives away.
The bees return to her, landing softly
on her hands like her own hair
bringing warmth like her own blood.
Gabriel Oladipo is a writer living in Chicago. He received his MFA in poetry from Brown University and is the author of the chapbook Emma (Ghost City Press 2018). You can find him at gabrieloladipo.com