Oct/Nov 2003 Poetry


by Jessy Randall

Photo-Art by Tara Gilbert-Brever



And we rose up like wheat, / acre after acre of gold, / and we harvested, / we harvested.
      —Anne Sexton, Us

I was wrapped in the seatbelt
on the right side of the car and
I undid myself and then
I slid over to the middle
and then you put your arm around me,
while kids in bandannas
drove by in speeding vans,
while whole towns and houses
rushed by like quicksand
in bright zinc motion.
We were in our own bodies
(that car that will carry us)
and you were in my body
(that care that will remove us)
and at last I found
a decent station on the radio
because you were the one driving
and then you said you were amazed.

Oh then
I pointed out the highway rest stop
and I looked in your eyes
and I looked in my bag
and you turned off the car
and you undid your seatbelt
and I undid my seatbelt,
the road signs, your jeans,
the twelfth grade English classes,
the August four o'clock heat
and we pulled in like coming home,
to a parking lot of trees,
and we rested,
we rested.


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