Interstate Horses
Ben Hickman · Portland Oregon, 2025 · Prose Poem
i. My father told me Interstate 5 was built for a war that never came. The old meandering roads were too narrow, too soft, destined to be crushed into useless paste beneath fuel trucks and tank treads if some trans-Pacific colossus ever set foot on the harsh beaches of Yachats, Tillamook, or Coos Bay.I remember him saying this as the darkness slipped past the windows. I imagined cracked hands smoothing wet concrete through the Siskiyous.
Then my mother sat forward in her seat."There."Her face caught a pink reflection before I saw it myself.A glow floated above the shoulder of the freeway. First one horse, then another. Not charging or rearing, but grazing, looking up, a mare bent toward a fawn. Statues in neon outlines hung in the darkness while the hum of the tires filled the car.Eugene to Portland, Portland to Eugene to see Grandma, and Al. And then just Grandma.The horses arrived every trip.The war never did.
ii. My Accord smelled of black coffee, interstate 5 now carries me home for Christmas break. I’m twenty-six now. Things Haden’t worked out like I planned. The dashboard clock crept toward midnight as the valley flattened into darkness beyond the headlights.I found myself glancing toward the shoulder.Toward the place where the horses should be.Only fence posts. Winter fields. For a moment I could see the shape of a horse anyway, suspended above the grass where memory insisted it belonged. Then the headlights shifted and there was nothing there at all.
The enormous roadside eagle advertising the foam services of a company nobody seemed to remember disappeared. So did the beer-bellied mascot of Thrill-Ville, forever frozen in triumph, dual American flags thrust high against the valley sky.New exits appeared.
iii. Now thirty nine, I travel south.My daughter is somewhere in the darkness behind me.I murmur to my son, "is she asleep?"He leans across the back seat to check, as outside his window the valley slides into darkness."Not yet."A few miles later I ask again.This time he nods.
Somewhere ahead is the place where the horses stood."Right up here, there used to be these horse sculptures, made of neon tubes," I say."What kind of horses?""Just horses."We drive another mile in silence."What happened to them?"I realize I don't know.The place approaches. I can feel it coming before I can identify it, the same way I once knew the horses were near before I could see them.I nod toward the darkness."That's where they were."My son presses closer to the glass.
Outside there is only grass, darkness, and the low hum of tires crossing concrete poured by men whose names neither of us will ever know.We pass the place.Neither of us says anything.Then, from the back seat:"She's asleep."And I remember the horses.