poem

 

Her highway is a silver ribbon threaded

through a lush hair of trees. She gets lost in its curves,

its shushing becomes her nightmusic.

She's older now. She drives one-handed.

She knows these turns, seen them all before.

No longer a wet-lipped girl fidgeting

in livery cabs with Dominican drivers

who reek of Brut cologne and wink into the rearview.

She rides alone. Until sky breaks open.  A greening light.

An empty highway she rides between dusk and dawn,

distance and time, watching the sun anoint treetops,

watching eyes of dull apartments catch aflame.

She drives, a silent witness with no name.

Every time, it's like being born again.

 

 

 

Selected from Matador Magazine, published in Madrid

Edited by Mireia Sentis