Near misses
Copyright © 2011 by Laura Kasischke. Reprinted from Space, in Chains with the permission of Copper Canyon Press.
Copyright © 2011 by Laura Kasischke. Reprinted from Space, in Chains with the permission of Copper Canyon Press.
The windshield’s dirty, the squirter stuff’s all gone, so
we drive on together into a sun-gray pane of grime
and dust. My son
puts the passenger seat back as far as it will go, closes
his eyes. I crack my window open for a bit
of fresher air. It’s so
incredibly fresh out there.
Remember sleep, in May, in the afternoon, like
a girl’s bright feet slipped into dark, new boots.
Or sleep in one another’s arms at 10 o’clock
on a Saturday in June?—that
smiling child hiding behind
the heavy curtain of a photo booth.
All our daysleep, my love, remember sleep
like brides in violets. Sleep
like sleepy pilots casting
the shadows of their silver jets
onto the silver sailboats
they also sailed
on oceans miles below.
Such nothingness, on the other
In the mirror, like something strangled by an angel—this
woman glimpsed much later, still
wearing her hospital gown. Behind her—mirrors, and
more mirrors, and, in them, more cold faces. Then
the knocking, the pounding—all of them wanting to be
let out, let in. The one-way conversations. Mostly not
anything to worry about, really. Mild accusations, merely.
Never actual threats. (Anyways, what could they possibly
do to you now from inside their locked, glass places?)
Still, some innocent questions on some special occasion