Steering Toward a Former Lover

Every time my hands grasp the steering wheel

I fear dreams. I have nodded off here before,

each field passing golden under smoke clouds

through the glassy eye of this vehicle.

The role of driver reveals distortion

about me, every mile post and marked speed

limit retaining movement; when I lose it

boundaries attract me. I should be nervous.

After I loosened loud words in Wetlands

at my boyfriend, he had stolen away

the station wagon. So I sloshed some blocks

back home, with visions of this plastic wheel.

Rolling back in neutral, I eyed my porch

through the windshield, sunken couch and blue posts.

I began to hope my man would run out

to relieve my spirit from driving hands.

I am moving to another city

with him - while still able, I should escape -

I tell myself - while you still can escape.

I am, officially, moving with him.

I ponder his tattoos, dumbbells and words

printed on his fists, ensnaring my gaze,

letters, P-A-I-N, on each knuckle;

I think they release me somehow. I leave,

I can travel about freely then, but

Mother phones everyone, “She’s on the skitz

again,” Mother informs each friend by phone.

I only vanish for short periods.

I drove away from our house over streets

to wherever – vaguely, eventually,

I must have arrived at the apartment

in which a former lover lived again.

There was a sudden thud and I glanced down

toward it - a small spiral notebook titled

Daily thoughts had fallen to the car floor

from the cluttered passenger seat. I paused,

left it, pushed open the door, crossed cement

to stairs, loosely clambering up four sets.

Approaching the top floor in warm night air,

I heard a familiar giggle resound.

Full of offshoots, shedding bronze belled blossoms

(rosemary’s details gawked at), my hand shook,

leapt on its shivering parts and felt them,

fingers rubbing bark, needles, squat flowers.

Left that potted plant, doors/chairs to each side,

and leaned off the top floor’s balcony rim:

beautiful view of stars and this fat tree.

Strange bent of freedom, hills curving out there

above buildings and roads, warped silhouettes

drawn out upon purple/yellow below

glints from other histories aging by

overwhelming factors of time/space - I

feel more comfortable on this porch, now

that she does not live through that adjacent

door. Only him living through this green door.

Finally knocked. Giggling rushed over me.

I sighed, frustrated - what voice is this? Mine?

Pale light seeping out beneath the tail end

of his hanging curtains spilled on the legs

of these metal chairs I was sitting on.

I began peeling green paint from the door.

It opened, startled me, light bulb’s effect

entering 1:30 A.M. There were

his edges: black cotton, not looking back,

doorframe standing between during dialogue.

Next,

I was in the doorway and he on the blue bed.

We giggled I nearly believe, but wasn’t that

fifty displaced minutes by car from here? Hearing,

"What did you come to say?" my body shifted back

onto the porch, and so did my eyes, back

where lights were dim. I saw him frown/stand/sit.

I'm not sure. We did this before. He spoke

with brown. His eyes. I stepped back again, pulled

pieces of hair. I must have been thinking

but it seemed I was already turning,

from the door, his last question, the pale light.

Each porches’ light bulbs were a bit unscrewed.

In the driver's seat with the roof light on,

below the long kitchen windows, my head

rolled forward, the experienced one sat

alone, always unnerved, concentrating

to hear that plastic roof crack or to hear

the pop of something fallen, landing. Just

giggling, with something like paper and pen,

among the street lamps, the wheels, and no one.

(cannot be published without permission from the author)

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