She wore that green sweater two days ago and now it’s soiled with tears. I sit beside her in the front seat–stone–as she confesses to me her fears. She’s driving fast and digging into the wheel.
We pass a truck here and slip beside one there. We’re being reckless and young but neither of us care.
I see the water on her face and it reflects what I am today–it locks my numbness into place. We are too unaffected by the good to have the ability appreciate. It’s seductive and comforting to us to settle on all that we hate.
Now we’re on the road again with less luggage and heavier baggage. In Chicago there seemed happiness, but in fact, we never had it.
We keep spinning like tops, and its seems the only way is to fall over if we want to stop.
We’re barreling home now, passing cars and barely looking around. We’re speeding up but in Ohio we’re down.
For once I can say that I want to get out of the car and feel my weight on the ground–
To beg the dirt to take a hit for us and ask the rocks to hold out. To appease the sky and and convince the hills to just let us hide.
But it’s useless. I know that if we can’t get the answers from ourselves then nothing will relieve us from asking why.
Why isn’t the sun good to us? Its light doesn’t illuminate but its heat leaves us as dust. Its shine stops before us at the car windshield as we dream of a blissful ignorance to which we wish we could yield. I see only blue and white up there and wonder what could be more pure. I think it’s the certainty that our sickness has no cure.
So again we look on to a different city and wait for either us or our paranoia to be dead. And again I resort to letting the fullness of leaving occupy my head. I’m thinking: I too often dream to reach the peak of that Golden Dome, that I foolishly forget that I’m returning to only my surface-home.
The boys are sleeping in the back seats, a head on each window as Grace and I fold over the radio’s sad beats. It’s only thirty minutes into our ride–they laid like infants as Grace and I died.