at thirteen, crouched in the comfort of

–a car’s seat–

–seated in the midst of chaos–

–pealing and–

 

–concealing– as the fine film,

settling over my mother’s eyes, saline cinema

 

broken wide,

 

trying to scale or split the night out the glass, and

the Colorado canyon parts wide, weaving and receiving, four wheels all the

way to Wyoming by tomorrow, and north

where my grandmother is sleeping, and we’ll get the call soon, that tells

mom that she won’t wake up and we know we won’t make it in

time to say anything, to touch her skin with blood running beneath it,

I wonder if it’s not worth the road, if

I try now I can recall her face and I want

to jump out of my frame to shatter, so

says the way her voice was split the last time--

I should have listened when they called before she slept,

stopped speaking, stopped living really—

I grip the back of the front seat,

settle into my mother’s cries, try to sleep with

certainty of a destination,

uncertainty of hours—

feel the -hum- -thrum- of my mom’s

shudders on the -chair- -shield- between us,

envision I could

commit some fission of self and sense,

blend into the -fabric- —the -particles of plastic- —

all the neatness of polyester

 

going wending

 

and winding,

 

fleeing from disaster

 

into the metallic chaos of the carbon and chassis, down until I’m

 

nothing but a

dimple in the

 

~r~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~i~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~p~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~p~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~l~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~e~ of asphalt -- becalmed by the avalanches that

 

:soothe in: :sundering:

 

/so that I can crouch, and be comforted in –a car’s seat–\.