Mythic Beaver

Yes, I’ll haul your ashes back to Oklahoma, the Lord G-d of Abraham riding shotgun. I got the coffee sweats already, just Him and me on I-55, you in a box on the seat between. We aim for that dent in the dust where your pa was born in a sod stable and your ma minced a snake with a garden hoe; that place the trappers named Beaver, not thinking, for once, of women. Reminded too much of Texas, G-d and I both hate the cottonwoods stuck to a high sky. We share a drink, swap our lies, and sift out what we can from the radio. Your name comes up and G-d’s eyes get dusty. When Gene Pitney sings the “Sh’ma Yisrael,” G-d stares out, that box of ashes inside His jacket, as close as He can hold it. There’s Beaver at nightfall, and bean burritos to wash down the beer. We scatter your ashes where we stop to pee, the Lord G-d’s laugh steady as a train blows, soft as lightning across the panhandle.