[Ella Shively]

Hi all! This is an ekphrastic poem based on the following image:
https://www.rattle.com/ekphrastic/

American Bicyclists (working title)

all summer long, we ruled the margins of the road, from the slick white line of paint to the nebulous borders of the cornfields. mile upon mile we rode, brakes squealing, spokes whirring, palms merging with oozy, black handlebars. we skidded onto dusty shoulders, our bicycles falling from our bodies like feathers, rear wheels still spinning as gravel crunched like the crushed exoskeletons of cicadas beneath our feet. we gorged ourselves on fume-soaked blackberries as we supervised the cars and their engulfed companions, who thought the whole yellow-striped world was theirs to own. we slipped a dollar bill into a flat tire, as an offering to the roadside gods. these gods could be seen from a distance, wavering in the heat, long-haired and paunchy, bare feet star-spangled with scrapes. in those days, there were things you could not buy or sell, least of all the red sun throbbing like a heart at the end of the pavement.

I’ve been thinking of replacing the “we” with a singular “she.” I also haven’t decided yet whether to keep it as a prose poem or add line breaks. Here’s the alternative:

American Bicyclists

all summer long, we ruled the margins of the road,
from the slick white line of paint
to the nebulous borders of the cornfields.
mile upon mile we rode, brakes squealing,
spokes whirring, palms merging with oozy, black handlebars.
we skidded onto dusty shoulders,
our bicycles falling from our bodies like feathers,
rear wheels still spinning as gravel crunched like
the crushed exoskeletons of cicadas beneath our feet.
we gorged ourselves on fume-soaked blackberries
as we supervised the cars and their engulfed companions,
who thought the whole yellow-striped world was theirs to own.
we slipped a dollar bill into a flat tire,
as an offering to the roadside gods.
these gods could be seen from a distance,
wavering in the heat, long-haired and paunchy,
bare feet star-spangled with scrapes.
in those days, there were things you could not buy or sell,
least of all the red sun throbbing like a heart
at the end of the pavement.