Wednesday, December 10, 2008


My new husband is a writer, a good one,
but sometimes he takes time from writing
to drive me around.  He knows I'm not a good driver,
that my mind wanders, that I am reliving
past events, imagining things I might have done
or said differently when I should be looking 
at the car in front of me, paying attention
to the color of the traffic light, the speed limit, 
he knows how many nights I've dreamt of dying 
in a crash, laid out on the street, no goodbyes.

When friends and colleagues visit, he drives them 
around for me as well, whistling and humming,
as happy as happy can be, and I am happy too,
a driven woman, to be now driven by one I love.  
When he tells me, driving, one day that he feels 
more important driving than writing, 
I want to say to him that writing is like driving, 
that poems always drive us somewhere, 
often places we don't want to go, that good poems 
are like good drivers, we trust them, they will
get us somewhere and back  safely,
but I don't say it, I don't want him to get
in a car accident thinking too deeply about driving:

for him, it's just a matter of  being useful, 
doing something for one who hardly ever 
lets anything be done for her, it's a matter 
of  keeping me alive.

1 comment:

  1. It's often tough for strong women to stay in the passenger seat, with partners or poems. But when we can manage it, what a privilege!