Posts Tagged ‘car’

I Bless Every Yes I Said

There were nights when my son
would come to me late, like midnight,
and say, Mom, come on, let’s go drive.
And though I was tired, and though I knew
the canyon roads would make my stomach turn,
I’d say yes, because I was glad he’d ask,
and we’d get in the Ford and I’d feel the thrill
as it flooded him each time he’d sit at the wheel.
The night was our cathedral.
And we’d talk, or we wouldn’t, and he’d drive
us up to the top of the Dallas Divide.
I’d feel like heaving my guts every time. But damn,
how I loved those nights. The hymn of the wheels.
His smile. His laugh. The quiet canticle of breath.
No matter what choices came later,
I have those times he steered toward joy,
Those nights when we were so alive
and we’d drive, just drive.

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Leaning into the vastness
of the star drunk sky,
my heart a vehicle,
to my surprise
I heard a small click,
like the sound of a car door
and your voice,
Mom, hop in.
Let’s take a spin.

I startle, as if
waking from a dream,
heart pounding,
astonished to find you
in the driver’s seat
as you love to be, and me
just one yes away
from a joy ride
through the universe,
if only I can find
the door.

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Kindness went out and got itself

a new engine—a four-hundred horsepower

twin turbo 3.3 liter V-6 engine.

Something with real oomph.

Something that provides a bit of giddy-up

when the loving gets tough. Turns out

kindness likes horsepower.

A lot of horsepower. Plus it sprung

for direct fuel injection to maximize

its power output. Everyone thinks

kindness prefers things quiet and calm,

but kindness is ready for action—

ready to take on the world,

ready to travel every back road,

every highway, every main street

and get this ever-loving show on the road.

There’s a whole lot of loving to do.

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from a dream inspired by Sharon



And I tried. I tried.

Except steep hills. Except

stop signs. Except fear.


Then one day,

the brake simply

didn’t work anymore.


I thought perhaps

I’d forgotten which pedal

was the brake.


I tried flooring the pedal,

anyway, though I knew

it wouldn’t work.


At first, I hated it. Was terrified,

really. Then—right through

the intersection,


right down the steepest hill—

there it was, I was in it,

the flow, the flow.

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What wants to happen?

            —Joi Sharp



Today it is the tow truck

that leads me back to myself.

For though I call the driver

and though I receive

a text that says he is coming

and though I have paid

my AAA bill on time, the tow

truck does not arrive.

Though I did everything right.

Though the same actions have worked before.

Still the world has not turned out

the way I expected, the way

I want it to. The car

is still stranded. The tow truck

is still not here. Oh failure,

how clearly it shows my attachment

to outcome. How clearly it

shows me the world is in charge.

I look for more doors to knock on,

try to plan more ways to control.

Meanwhile, I am the door.

Meanwhile, this chance

to let go.

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no wonder my feet
never reach the brakes—
all this time
trying to drive
from the passenger side

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But first, she takes a few slugs of absinthe.
The pale green thrill of it blazes in her throat.
God walks in just as she finishes her glass.
God finishes the bottle. Then he says,
Are you nervous? Wild Rose doesn’t hesitate
to say, No way. I am ready for anything.
God says they’re going for a spin.
Wild Rose doesn’t care where. All she wants
is for God to show her a real good time. And
she is open to what that means. Here,
says God, as they arrive at the car,
climb in. He opens the driver’s seat door for her.
She pours her long legs in. There’s no brake, she sees.
No rear view mirror. No reverse. No safety belts.
A big back seat. Oh yeah, she says, and revs the engine.
The night smells like licorice, like sweat.

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In the backseat,
Vivian says, Mom,
I want to know
the darkness,

and so rolls down
her window
and shouts,
Hello Night!

And then she
whispers something
to the air
that I can’t hear

though I strain
against the rush
of road noise
to decipher her words.

The conversation belongs
to her, though, and
to the night, and to
the window that

already she has learned
to open herself.

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