by Diana Whitney

August heat rises from the river.
The girl tells her parents she’s at a friend’s
then crosses the state line into Ohio,
brings a bottle of vodka to spike
her Slushy, beelining for the football party,
the boy she likes in the basement.

She sips another drink down in the basement,
the summer night rushing like a river
of stars, fifty kids crushing into the party,
bright and free at sixteen. Her friend
hands her a red Solo cup of ice spiked
with Smirnoff, a favorite in Ohio

where they live for football, for Ohio
victory, Roll Red Roll chanted at the party,
chanted at the stadium, boys spiking
the pigskin, smashing their bodies, the river
inscrutable at the edge of town. Her friends
want to bounce to another party.

She still remembers leaving that party,
following the boy, a hero in Ohio,
his teammates in tow and maybe her friends.
People say she threw up in the basement.
People say she threw up on the curb. The river
is silent as the car glides past, spikes

of willow leaves floating in murk. Trace a spike
in uncertain events after the party:
she wakes beneath a blanket, cloudy as the river,
not back home but naked in Ohio,
freaking out on a couch in a stranger’s basement
missing her panties, her phone, her friends.

The court will call on the testimony of friends.
The girl, Jane Doe, says someone spiked
her drink. Was she blackout-drunk on the basement
floor or passed-out-drunk like a whore at the party?
The boys carried her out, the pride of Ohio.
There are photos and videos, a river

of pixels. One was the quarterback, a party
bro, sharing her body with friends in Ohio—
spikes circle the basement, sink in the river.

______________________________________________________________________

by Diana Whitney

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.

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