Remember the horsehair of a bow
Must be untouched, for the sake of sound.
God made provisions
For this pain. Be sure.
Do you want to know the story,
Or how it goes?
There's a difference
Between this room and the fire
That makes its attempts at night.
Consumption, endless air -- you
Are not without cure. Go on,
Forget what you've been given:
A bed loose on wheels that goes nowhere.
You weren't in the car. Driving down roads
that were soaked with red clay, as if murders
were just under the ground. The evergreens
were elderly and hissing wind, weird and northern.
You weren't in the car, and I didn't even know you then,
but I had the feeling that you were after yourself.
I knew you'd be gigantic, with arctic blue eyes
looking down into lakes that reflected a reign
of self-chattering. Ask yourself how crazy you are
now that we've met. Two people driving,
quiet inside these windows and this metal,
all of our noise outside, making up a country.
Beth Woodcome lives in Brookline, MA. Of late she has been published
Sol Review and canwehaveourballback, and has work forthcoming in a
poetry anthology. Beth is the Poetry Editor of Perihelion magazine.
works in the Counseling Center at the Berklee College of Music in
Potentially, might be ...