Directive
You want to stop the car.
To not proceed any further
into the place you have been
and the place you continue to go.
The place changes—
sometimes a lover or a bar
you frequented when you were young
and less tired, back when you didn’t
look in the rearview mirror
and find your cheeks sunken,
your eyes weary and lined.
At one time, the place
was a boat landing and the desire
to drink up the moon, to swallow it
like an ice-cube in diet-soda night,
your tongue fizzy and blundered.
Like a migratory bird, you always
know the place and to find it
when your belly crawls up to your throat.
It never knocks. Refuses.
Tells you: take a narrow
stretch of road, one peppered
with rusty mailboxes
and half-assembled cars.
Seek dandelions or buttercups;
it makes no difference.
A soy field will do. Drive
until no one knows
where to find you, even the one
that loves you and waits.
Park where you feel nervous,
someone’s driveway or an abandoned
factory, until you want
to turn around, taking yourself with you.
