Crossing Geneva Marsh

Mist lingers on the surface of stagnant tea-brown water. The flat bridge spans a mile, a sea of spatterdocks. Tangled stalks of cattails and swamp grass reach up towards the underside of the deck, the chalcedony of cloud. My father’s at the wheel of his coffin Cadillac, following a wayward crow into the depths of autumn. His headlights gaze into the Nietzschean abyss. And then the same abyss gazes back into us. Rear tail-fins cut through the snapping-turtle air, past the scarlet oaks and shagbark hickories. Smoke from his cigar drifts out his cracked window, heavenward, as we head towards the exit at Mercer. We turn in the direction of Farrell, Sharon, Youngstown, and pass the furnaces of purgatory and hell.