Driving from where I was born to where I live
by Patricia Goodwin
[ poetry - march 07 ]
Perhaps it's the music
that knows my secret name
and lifts the wheels off the fast moving ground
perhaps, it's the turn
at the Green Spot
when the road opens up to the marsh
that once was
where they're getting ready to kill it
but they haven't quite, yet
no, it is the troubling beauty of the turn
at my self
the deep, salted ocean
clean smell of salt, deep water rushing toward me, and
me,
rushing toward her
I open my legs for her
she vibrates into the car
how is it possible
to climax with air?
the music is telling me
it fills out my fingers
it clasps the wheel
with the soprano of
taking my feet off the pedals
it shakes the wheel
with the strings of
in my stomach gives way
toes splay out
I am my name
I am myself
far above the road
flinging me toward
entering me
