Do they get caught? C asks,
wanting to know the end
from the beginning. Do they make it
to Mexico? Do they go to jail?
Do they get shot by cops
in cruisers and choppers?
Just wait, I say.
I’ve already messed up. I forgot
the scene in the parking lot,
the predator at the honky-tonk bar
slapping Thelma in the face, shoving her
belly-down on the hood of his truck.
The click of his belt unbuckling.
It was 1991. I hadn’t been raped yet.
I kept the thrill of the open road, Brad Pitt
strutting in cowboy jeans, Louise
fierce and bold in her gritty bandana
blowing up an 18-wheeler.
That was power, I thought back then.
Do they make it? C asks again.
She says the women are stupid,
they should switch cars, hop a train, stop
calling home to Arkansas. She is sure
she could survive if given the chance.
A is quiet. Oh, I know,
she breathes softly
as they near the Grand Canyon.
At the end the green car floats
above the earth, tears trace my cheeks
and I take the girls’ hands. Thelma and Louise
are holding hands too. This is the only way,
I try to explain. They have no choice,
not in this world. It’s the movies after all—
the Thunderbird suspended forever
in Arizona sky, a magic feminist
ride to the afterlife while we’re stuck here
on the ground, on the couch, in the house
where it’s dark dark dark
all around, the future pressed hard
against the windows.
