David Thornbrugh
	Montana Without a Map What I don’t know about Montana keeps the car rolling all day, Grandpa Freud’s bare feet on the dashboard and Uncle Nietsche’s beer cans rolling around on the floor. Grandpa Freud says the river is down there, further down, just keep driving, but Montana is thicker than I thought, like a buffalo’s tongue flashing neon in the lightning sky. Sheriffs point the way with silver flashlights the way the doctor asks you to say ah. When rock ridges block the way down I get out and follow the old man who appears as a guide. Grandpa Freud goes deeper just to pee while I watch the Buddhas in the aquarium and tell the turtles I’ll bring them pie when this is all over, when I climb back out carrying what I’ve learned about Montana and how different it is from what I’d expected.