The Town of Horne
I can only find it when I take
the wrong exit. Caught in a cloverleaf
spiraling into the sun’s fierce glare
I’m spit out onto a rural route
bordered by weathered mailboxes
and wind-thrashed grasses. Blue sky
is daubed with clouds so white
I squint until I’m lost in the shadow
of the one overhead. At the fork
I veer left since I’m a lefty but
then I’m back on the same route
trying not to find the highway
but the town. There’s a water tower
in the distance. On it, the town’s
name ends in a spray-painted Y.
The farm road turns to gravel
then dirt, then it seems I’m on
someone’s driveway with boughs
scraping my roof, a setter howling
beside me. When I emerge
from the snaking one-way tunnel
I’m crossing a bridge over a chasm.
There are clouds below me.
On the other side of the bridge
a sign welcomes me to Horne. Yet
I see no buildings. Only trailer homes
tucked into the shade of redwoods.
I drive in slowly and park. A man
sits in a chair, reading the paper.
He spits, says Howdy, and resumes
his reading. A cardboard sign says
Horne Museum in purple marker.
I ascend three steps into the trailer
and I’m startled by the portrait before me:
a nobleman in black burnoose
and white ruffled blouse, glaring at me,
thumb and forefinger pinching the tip
of an ebony cane, russet moustache
pointed at each end. Beside him:
a marble table littered with basins
and half-plucked guinea fowl
beside eggplants with polished skins.
Behind him, waves smash a monolith
to which starfish cling. His eyes
are filled with mirth or malice. There’s
a mirror on the wardrobe’s door
and in its shattered pane one sees
the hemorrhage of an empyrean realm
streaming with gulls or distant cherubim.
Under the painting, a table on which rests
a coffee maker, some cups, sugar packets,
and sweetener. I make a cup for myself
and see what else is on display.
Under glass is the rusted bullet
that pierced the heart of Horne’s
first mayor. Also featured: the clubfoot
of a notorious criminal who plagued
the town for years. He was hanged
from the bough of a tree outside.
Finally, I see a photograph of a woman
so beautiful I’m broken. I ask
the man out front about the picture.
“Came with the frame,” he replies.
