Aerodynamic Drag by Melinda Dubbs

I crawl into grandma’s wheelchair, feet levitating

above the carpet. It is my racecar

and I like to go fast. I rev the motor

and thin plastic wheels moan

as I soar around the Tiffany lamp, lap

around the kitchen island and spinout in the dining

room, crashing into pine

arms and legs. The grandstand roars,

bloodthirst titillated. My car mangled,

collapsed under the table as I crawl on

naked, rug-burned knees to assess the damage:

two blowouts, bent chassis, full body

damage. Damn.



So I become

an engineer, a mechanic

in a pink jumpsuit, paper napkin

blueprints lined across my feet, air gun convulsing

in my hands. Under 5:24 and I make it all new.

Everything chrome and I am the driver once more and

this race isn’t over. But I’m loose, tires gnashing

against the coffee table, drafting

the cat sprinting in front of my Monte Carlo, engine breathing

down its fur. I speed past corner 3

but grandma barricades my path,

her diminutive blue hands clutching

the walls. We trade off and she rolls



down the hall,

oversized travel bag on her lap. We sit on the bed

and she tells me about pantyhose, smearing

cherry lipstick on my mouth,

plastic earring stickers on my lobes, my racecar

now draped with lingerie.



Published by

Jeremiah Walton

Jeremiah Walton is wary of writing a bio.

3 thoughts on “Aerodynamic Drag by Melinda Dubbs”

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