Road Trip Not Taken

My rear-view mirror leaves you engulfed
in a dust-filled alleyway with words unsaid.

This is the trip we planned for that summer.
My little car grudgingly heaved itself
over the unlit highways of the Pacific Northwest.
We made love in rain-covered wheat fields,
stayed near the sea. We climbed
fire-watchers’ towers to see over the mist.
Ahead the moon was only half-formed.

As the end neared emptiness clamped down
around us like a bright bowl scraped clean.
Clouds hung like dark ellipses between
our hesitations as we swung under
an off-ramp and headed our separate ways.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Negatives

She follows limestone cliff walls.
The black and white highway
slides beneath the car,
leading to an alien
horizon of fields and lazy
river towns. They rise
above her, cutting off escape.

Rain slashing against glass,
the torn road turns out
into squares of a rural patchwork.
The stitching is left unfinished,
threads hang loose.

Empty mornings have caught
against her, pieces
of conversation forced together
until they are crushed
like eggshells into the trash.

She wishes to press herself
into rows of drying corn.
Continue to the boundary woods,
until she is a flashing blur
in the glint of sun.

She turns farther away,
no sound forming under her
on the rain-softened interstate.

-------------------------------------------------------------

The Critical Hour of 3am
after the painting by Jack Vettriano

We spend our last hour silent,
the curtains pulled tight.
Motes of dust ride the shaded
lamplight down to the floor.

He sits at the edge of the bed,
head bowed as if in prayer.
I know his mind, full
of violent images
he’ll try to throw at the canvas.
They’ll refuse to stick
and too will slide
onto the dank carpet.

I could stare defiant at him
in the knowledge I’m right,
but instead I smoke and watch
my half-reflection in the mirror.
Nails tick out the moments,
my shoe slipping off.

He paints someone else.
The woman he prefers,
how he imagines he desires her.
I dream I’m somewhere else,
an empty bar, downing
frosted glass after glass
until the bartender calls time.

I walk home along the seafront,
laughing as the stars
rush towards the water’s edge.
We’re all falling down,
falling apart.
Some refuse to admit it.
Others rest our heads gently
on the sand, let the undertow
pull us along.