I listen to your memory
of fighting
in the car
your forehead to the glass--
you are the passenger.
The driver
takes deep breaths
and runs her fingers
over a wheel she would reinvent
if you'd only speak,
but your silence is a shield
she cannot see;
the words you withhold
would scratch a scar
for every kilo traveled.
At once, she stops,
abandons the wheel
and brings you back to her
with sunflowers
cut, just then,
as an offering
for you to forgive,
and your memory
places me on the side
of a road
at peace.

11/09/2004

Posted on 11/09/2004
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