Sunday, January 27, 2013


I was fighting with myself
for the steering wheel
while driving to Eugene in the fog.
Watching from the back seat
was my oldest son,
the child of my earliest dreams,
the boy who would love me
the way I loved my father
and make being alone
a thing of the very long time ago -
the young man I never drive
anywhere anymore.

Just past Monroe I missed the bend
and all three of us went into the river,
the two of me and my oldest son.
Then there was only one of me.
I was buried in the water, searching
the sinking of the car for my son. The river
was deep, and he could not open his door,
could not open his window,
could not stop being so damned distant
from all of the reasons for his being
out of breath. My lungs filled up
with water, but I reached the car,
opened the door, pulled him out limp.

I shoved him to the surface, followed
his floating there, climbed the bank after him,
saw the wet footprints of his escape.
Then, I could not find him.
When I screamed his name
the only noise I made was the sound
of a baby crying colicky echoes
no one else could hear.
The other me was back now,
on the bank, wordless, glaring.

Little Patuxent Review - Issue 13 Doubt

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