Crescendo
by Leanne O'Sullivan
|
| Driving to my Doctor in July,
I sit |
| With my feet on the
dashboard, calves |
| Glinting in the white heat, a
new lexicon crawling |
| Around the corners of a
napkin as I try to write |
| Against my thighs. Above our
red Toyota |
| The branches and leaves of
Ireland have kindled |
| With the sky, a Monet where
there was |
| once a Cézanne. My mother
seeks out |
| The straightest routes,
allows the car |
| To ebb the smooth middle of
the road as |
| The wind laps the rim on the
window, like |
| a staccato to the music of
Cat Stevens. |
| I think she loves the passion
of over-taking, |
| The thunder of engines
flirting on opposite sides |
| of the road. The corners of
her eyes |
| will sharpen. Her stomach
will tense and flatten. |
| Lips taut, she takes the
reigns of our |
| Lives with both hands, and as
I |
| Close my eyes she delivers me |
| to the darkness just before
birth, the pulse |
| of gears aroused, swelling,
like the hum |
| induced by speed. We slide
along |
| the vein of mom's road, our
bodies moving |
| through the air like seeds
through a pistil, |
| and when I can feel my hair
whipping my jaw again |
| I open my eyes and glance at
my mother. |
| Strands of her hair tucking
in the salty tattoo of the wind, |
| her elbow angling over the
lip of the door. |
| We descend, sending loose
chips |
| flying like progress. She
drives faster and faster |
| As if she is driving to save
my life. |
| We are falling through the
green of Ireland |
| And mom has the gear-stick in
her fist |
| As if it is the strong branch
of a tree to cling to. |
 I
change stations on the radio, |
| Touching her fingers. |
