Photo by Mayur Joshi on Unsplash
I love to see an arm out a passenger side window, of an ‘87 Buick or a Volkswagen Westfalia.
An arm baked brown over seven golden summers;
An arm hairy and freckled and sagging with age;
This arm, diminutive, reaching for its mother in the passenger seat;
An arm reaching back against the wind.
This arm has painted fingertips.
This arm is bound in black ribbons— words, in another language. Sanskrit? I’m driving too far behind to see.
Arms with no bodies or heads or faces attached. They could belong to anyone. To everyone.
About the Creator
Jennifer A. G.
🇨🇦 Canadian Writer, Painter & Embroidery Artist
♾️ Métis Nation
🎓 University of Victoria Alumna
📝 Publications: The Malahat Review, Freefall Magazine, Geist, Best Canadian Poetry 2026


Comments (1)
A beautiful contemplation. The exact kind of observations we think about on a road trip. So many stories attached to every driver, every car, every arm outside a window. Lovely writing, as always, Jen. 😊