Poetry

The Smell of New

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Photo of a line of tall palm trees

By Karen Crawford

Photo of a line of tall palm trees

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The smell of new sways from the rearview mirror as we start out east to west. Polished chrome and opalescent paint gleaming under a winter white sky. We don’t want to think about the parents touching up rust spots on hands and knees or scrubbing the muddy tires clean. We don’t want to think about the endless flow of tears.
 
 
We wave our hands out the window somewhere around the four corners. Our wedding rings shimmering under a radiant sun. Desert dust on the roadmap stretched out across our legs. The ride from the parents so smooth we’re sure we must be flying. We taste salt in the air at the edge of forever. We call the parents, tell them about the towering palms and a true-blue sky that caresses the sea.
 
 
The smell of new disappears along with our car somewhere in the San Fernando Valley. We think about the parents touching up rust spots. We think about All our belongings in the trunk. We stare at the Welcome to Los Angeles sign, try to swallow the salt on our tongues. The sky muted by acid yellow smog. Palm trees leaning sideways from the weight of their fronds.

Karen Crawford lives and writes in the City of Angels. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Anti-Heroin Chic, Rejection Letters, Flash Fiction Magazine, Potato Soup Journal, Five Minutes, among others. You can find her on Twitter @KarenCrawford_

Why we chose this piece: This piece just oozes mood. We loved going along on this atmospheric road trip, and the ending is perfect. The dread of adulthood and the mundane creeps in ever-so-slowly, especially with the use of repetition. The imagery and subtle use of near-rhyme paired with the formatting showcases the emotion in a really lovely way.

You can read another piece she published with Unfortunately, here.

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