Thought # 1 | Running

mitchell-orr-222165.jpgWhen I was young I never liked to run.

When the teacher blew the whistle I would walk to the line having spent my hour beneath the tree by the playground fence, talking to my friends about things in the news that scared us or watching the boys in our class run around after the other girls, the nicer girls, the girls who loved to run.

As I grew up I learned to love running, too. I learned to run without ever moving my feet. I loved to get as close as I could and then as far away as possible; to chase and then be chased.

The years ran by too, and with every race I won I found only a new starting line, another whistle blown, another face on the terrace watching as I ran away.

I glued the medals in a scrapbook; the envelopes resealed, my name in black ink.
No postal address. No stamp.

And, now, I try my best to be still.

My mind no longer runs. Though she wanders from time to time.

 

Poem #4 | December 16th, Your Red Car

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December 16th, Your Red Car

 

We were both almost grown
but your hair was gone,
and I laughed because
I’d never seen your
forehead before and

with you I was
Jane,
Awake again,
because we drove
to a new place
before all the old ones,
past our old school then
down Dagger Lane
in the fog, at midnight,
when I had work the next day.

And I’ll remember that
night, after the turn in
your mind, because I
spoke of the scars on
another man’s
thighs and it was only
for looking that I saw
the trouble I’d left for
safekeeping somewhere
in your eyes.