Driving down 76, tires
a slow waltz on slick roads, cars
nosing into the dark spell
of a gossamer night, snow
a shimmer in headlights,
feathering the trees that breathe
with supplicant arms, sentinel glance.
I think I should be tense, anxious,
a tight grip on the edge
of a long day in a winter’s glare
but the night is a lullaby, a hush
even with scrape of wiper blades,
slap of ice, a misty caravan song,
and I wait for what will meet me here,
where I can be claimed by a rash
of sorrows, dint of hope
with my aunt in a hospital bed, half
paralyzed, roped to silence by stroke,
while somewhere depression paints
its warpath on a body I love
and a marriage clings to a fistful
of promise and bullets steal
our young, our black, our thunder
hearts while beauty
wants one more
kiss.